


Queen & Country

by Kitsfics



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1960s, Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Basically Sansa has to deal with a lot of shit, Bond is a loveable asshole, But she gets some snappy comebacks, Code Name: Hound, Code Name: Little Bird, Code Name: Young Wolf, Eventual Smut, F/M, Guns, Hurt/Comfort, James Bond Crossover, Just a bit of fun, Minor Robb/Theon, POV Sandor Clegane, POV Sansa Stark, Robb and Theon gay? Possibly, Sassy Sansa Stark, Scar confession/explanation, Sexual Tension, Smoking, Someone's been watching too many Bond movies, Warning for Period-Appropriate Sexism, Yearning, a little bit of Petyr/Sansa in chapter 13 but it is sneaky seduction only I promise, adversaries to friends to lovers, not much fluff, there will be puns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 49,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24164197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsfics/pseuds/Kitsfics
Summary: Stark, Sansa Stark. Newly promoted to Agent for MI6, Sansa Stark is teamed up with her brother, established agent Robb Stark, his partner in crime (and love?) Theon Greyjoy, and 007 himself James Bond, to track down a suspected mole inside the agency. Sandor Clegane is assigned to this motley crew after his partner, Bronn, is injured in the line of duty. He knows the male agents by reputation, but doesn't know quite what to think of beautiful, clever, sharp-tongued Sansa Stark, who he at first thinks is not qualified for her position. Sansa, in turn, lumps Sandor in with the other sexist agents she has to deal with. Can the two overcome their bad first impressions to get their man? Will they be able to ignore their growing attraction?
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Robb Stark
Comments: 111
Kudos: 91





	1. Penny for Your Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> I've been watching too many Bond movies, and thought that the best Bond movie would be one where Bond is the ridiculous distraction, while a less-obvious woman does all the real work. I know Remington Steele's a thing and apparently has this exact same premise, but I thought Sansa Stark would make a great foil for this concept, and thus, the crossover was born! The motto for this story is: behind every great man is a woman rolling her eyes.
> 
> Sandor has some feelings towards Sansa that are slightly sexist, at first. But he quickly gets on the "Supporting Sansa Stark" train.
> 
> I actually thought this would just be a quick one, but I've already got 7 chapters written, so buckle up! This is also my first time setting out to not write something overtly smutty, so that's a fun experiment. This one is about the tension.
> 
> This is also my first attempt to write enemies to lovers. I am too soft to write my ships as enemies, but I did manage to get some antagonistic feelings between Sansa and Sandor in the first few chapters, but it quickly resolves to mutual admiration, because, again, I am soft.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Comments and kudos always appreciated!

Sansa Stark leaned back in her chair, a cup of coffee in front of her. She crossed one slender leg over the other, feeling a pair of eyes crawl down her exposed leg, from mid-thigh to soft knee, curved calf to slim ankle. She knew she looked good, in her black mini-skirt, white and green dotted blouse with the Peter Pan collar, and soft green jumper. Her auburn hair was braided back from her face, which was done up in light makeup to accentuate her features, light mascara and eyeliner, a touch of pink lipstick. She looked good, and the buffoon at the next table hadn’t failed to notice.

Sansa started to gently bounce her leg as she took a sip of coffee. When she set the cup down, she greatly increased the velocity of her leg, nudging the leg of the table as she let the cup fall out of her fingers. A theatrical gasp sealed the effect. Coffee ran across the edge of the table, and the man at the next table, close enough that Sansa could have reached out and touched him with her right hand, leaned over to offer her a napkin.

“Oh, thank you!” Sansa cried, sopping up the spilled coffee. “I’m so clumsy. I didn’t get any on your pants, did I?”

She flashed him a brilliant smile, and the man returned the smile hesitantly. “It’s fine. It’s just a little on the cuff, it’ll wash-”

He cut off mid-sentence because Sansa had slid from the chair to her knees in front of him, dabbing a dry napkin at his pants. “No, it’s fine, you don’t have to do that.” His voice was soft, the Russian accent soft, but marked. He had spent time trying to purge that accent, trying to affect a British one.

Sansa looked up from his pants, this time her smile was unsure, hesitant. “Sorry, I must look like such a fool.” Her face hovered by his knee, but she smiled at him as if there were no impropriety.

He put his hand on her arm to help her up. Sansa’s eyes quickly flicked over the young man’s face. His blonde hair was just the right amount of tousled, his eyes blue as summer skies, but she ignored those details. She quickly noticed the briefcase next to him on the floor, the gun he wore in a holster under his jacket, the bit of shaving soap under his left ear he’d missed that morning. That was what she was best at, her eyes didn’t miss a thing. That and she could talk a mark off his queue like a bird out of his nest.

“Not at all, Miss…”

“Penelope Carter.”

His mouth quirked at the corner. “Do your friends call you Penny?”

She smiled. “They do, actually.”

He nodded. Sansa looked down, pretending to get flustered. “Well, I should go. I’m sorry again.”

She noticed the regretful look in his eye as she turned away, knew he would follow her. She stepped outside. The Paris street was quiet, the last beams of sunset turning the horizon as red as her hair, fading into somber purples and blues, and then black. Street lamps had just begun to light, but the one over her head was still dark, so Sansa’s eyes struggled to adjust to the dark, after the bright interior of the café. Sansa stepped to one side, near the alleyway behind the café. She reached into her purse for a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out and lit it, waving the ember above her head twice in small circles, almost as if she were talking to herself and using the cigarette to gesticulate.

The young Russian man stepped out of the café. He too struggled to adjust to the dark for a moment, but he saw her in the beam of light from the café doorway. Once the door shut behind him, the light was gone.

“Penny?” he asked uncertainly.

“Oh, hi!” she smiled, knowing he couldn’t see it, but would be able to hear it in her voice. “You came after me.”

“Well, I-” he fumbled for words. “I wanted to see if you were alright.”

Of course, nothing men loved more than a helpless girl. Though Sansa was 22 and hardly a child, she’d noticed the term had applied to her every since infancy, and would apparently be used until she turned 40. She put the thought from her mind.

“Oh, I just felt so silly. Making a mess and then making such a fuss over your pants. You must think I’m a loose girl.”

Penny started to edge toward the alley, and the young man followed, almost without realizing it.

“Loose? No, I didn’t think that.”

 _Liar,_ Sansa thought. Just a few more feet. She just needed him to come a few feet closer.

Sansa jumped softly, as though she had heard a threatening noise. “What was that?”

He took the bait again. He quickly stepped forward the few remaining feet, and took her arm. “What is it?”

Sansa turned him so his back was facing the alley, and a man’s arm, clad in a suit jacket, snaked around the Russian’s neck before slipping back into the darkness, pulling the Russian with him. Sansa followed, pulling a handkerchief and a little vial from her purse, dousing the handkerchief in the liquid. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark, so she could see the other man, holding the Russian with one hand behind the blonde head, the other man’s face turned away so he wouldn’t be hit by the Russian’s flailing arms. Sansa stood as far away as she could while holding the handkerchief to the Russian’s face, away from hers and the assailant. She had to move her arm once, when the Russian caught hold of her wrist and tried to twist it. A muscle cried out in pain, but Sansa remained silent, just pulled her wrist from his grasp, then reached back to his face with the wet cloth.

After a few minutes of decreased air flow and the soporific effect of the drug, the Russian collapsed. The other man straightened to look at Sansa.

“Well, aren’t you a knockout.”

Sansa gaped at him, brows furrowed in confusion. “Was that a pun?”

He nodded, smiling. “Of course. Didn’t you like it?”

“Of course not. Help me grab his feet, Jimmy.”

He huffed at her. “Don’t call me that! It’s Bond, James Bond.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Fine. Can we get this guy away from the street before we’re Dead, Really Dead?”

Sansa picked up the Russian’s feet while Bond grabbed him under the shoulders. They carried him to the back of the alley, where MI6 agents were already waiting with a van. An agent came forward to grab the man’s legs from Sansa, and she ducked back in the alleyway to grab the briefcase. She started to fiddle with the catches, but Bond grabbed it from her.

“We’ll take it from here, Stark.” He only ever called her that in front of other people, and it made her furious. She’d known him for five years, had gone through all the same training, they were within a few years’ age of each other, she 22, he 25, and yet, once they’d left training and gone into field work together, he was suddenly so superior. She’d noticed from the very first assignment, that whenever the outcome was good, Bond got the credit. She wouldn’t go so far as to say he gave her the blame; it was more like if the outcome was bad, there was some external excuse. It was never James’s fault. And occasionally, yes, Sansa had gotten the blame if a mark was reluctant or a source wouldn’t talk. She hadn’t tried hard enough, he’d claim, hadn’t been persuasive enough, missed some clue she could have used.

Sansa gritted her teeth and pulled the briefcase back. “Bond, I can help,” she hissed.

It was the wrong thing to say. James turned back to her all smiles and soothing tone. “Of course you could help. That’s not what I meant. I just meant that you don’t have to bother anymore. I’m sure you’re tired from all your hard work. You had the brunt of this one, not me.”

He wasn’t wrong. She’d staked out the target for days now, finding out where he went, what he liked to eat, even what kind of girl most attracted his notice, as he wandered the streets of Paris with information for his Russian handler.

But that wasn’t the way Bond meant it, and they both knew it. She had done the work, and now he was going to reap the reward. Bond and all but one of the agents piled into the van, and it pulled away, headed for secure headquarters. Sansa would go back to the hotel to break down the base camp, and meet them back at HQ, before getting shipped back to London. They had agreed to this beforehand, but Sansa had thought that just once maybe she’d get to go debrief M, and he’d have to pack up.

Sansa rolled her eyes as she pulled a beret from her purse, and placed it on her head, tucking her braid in so less of her noticeable hair was visible. She lit another cigarette and headed off down the back street, away from the front of the café, just in case anybody had seen her go back there with the Russian agent. The MI6 agent who’d stayed behind nodded to her, then fell in ten paces behind her. He would tail her to the hotel, just to make sure no harm came to her.

Sansa checked the Walther PPK in her shoulder holster, which Sansa had had to modify to fit under her bra. A little extra padding in the cups, always helpful when trying to catch a mark’s eyes, also helped to conceal the lines of the gun. She had examined herself closely in a mirror, and could say with certainty that even when you were looking for it, you couldn’t see it. More than Bond could say for his shoulder holster he wore like a badge of honor.

Sansa sighed as she headed home, head on a swivel, just in case. Maybe she just needed to get used to the fact that she would never be taken seriously as an agent.


	2. The Smell of Arsenic in the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor returns to London after a semi-successful mission. Sandor meets Sansa, and first impressions are not good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning that updates for this fic might come a little slow, as I am a little slower writing this one. Plot-based stuff is a lot tougher for me than my usual fluff and smut, and since this is all plot and angst (with some eventual fluff), it takes me a bit longer. The other thing is, I have a couple chapters done, but I'm nervous to post them before later stuff is written, in case I need to go back and change an earlier event. So, I don't know. We'll figure it out. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Also, warning for language and period appropriate sexism.

_Sandor_

Sandor Clegane stood at the back of the room, eyes sweeping over the occupants from time to time, but mainly focused on the conversation between two men at the table in front of him. He didn’t hear much, his mark was tight-lipped, but he was still trying. He heard murmurs of a pickup, an agent who didn’t make the rendezvous.

“I don’t have to remind you of what happens if they get that briefcase,” the other man, skinny, nervous, told the larger man, the one Sandor was guarding. Sandor had been instructed to just call him Mr. Blue.

“Don’t get hysterical,” Mr. Blue mumbled. “I have sent agents to find him. We will know soon enough where he is. In the meantime, every time you contact me, you paint a target on your back. You think they aren’t watching me?”

The skinny man mumbled something Sandor didn’t hear.

“Isn’t that true, Sandor?” Mr. Blue asked.

Sandor couldn’t help it. His eyes flicked a millimeter towards Mr. Blue, who was pulling a gun from his shoulder holster and swinging it around to bear on Sandor.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pulling his own gun and leaning forward to kick Mr. Blue’s away. He slung his neck around the big man’s neck, pointed his gun at the man’s head, then turned towards the other guards who were about to begin shooting at Sandor.

“Hold yer fire,” he growled, “or I’ll shoot his brains across the room.”

He began to back toward the exit, hoping that his partner had noticed the row and called in backup. Or was at least on his way to back him up right then.

A guard began to approach on Sandor’s left. Sandor squeezed the necktie around Mr. Blue’s neck tighter, causing the man to croak out. The guard stood down. Sandor reached the swinging door that lead to the kitchens. He heard a soft voice call out, “On your right.”

“Fucking hell, took you long enough,” he muttered, dropping to one knee, pulling the fat man with him. Bronn began shooting from behind the door, killing three before any of the guards ever got a shot off. Sandor took two more, leaving just one, who turned and ran.

“Brave fellow,” Bronn laughed. Sandor turned towards his partner, who always seemed to be fucking laughing, and grimaced. Even Bronn blanched at Sandor’s expression.

“Did you call for backup? While you were busy not watching my ass.”

“I used to watch your ass all the time, but you kept calling me a poof.”

Sandor shoved Bronn against the wall. “Make one more joke, funny man.”

“Yes, I called backup, you big lug. We’ll extract the Big Man here, then see what we can extract from him.”

A shot rang out, and Sandor dimly registered the bloom of red at Bronn’s shoulder as Sandor dropped to one knee, turned, and fired. It only took one shot, but then, Sandor had been the best marksman in his class. He fired one more time to be sure, but the other guard, who’d come running back at the last minute, fell over and did not get back up.

Sandor turned to Mr. Blue, gun pointed in the middle of his forehead. “Move and I’ll shoot you in an uncomfortable place that will leave you in excruciating pain but very much alive. You believe me?”

The fat man nodded, and after a moment Sandor went to kneel at Bronn’s side. “You alright?”

Bronn nodded. “I’ll take a shot in the dark and say he’s had better days.”

Sandor stared at his partner. “Did you just make a fucking pun?”

Bronn shrugged, then winced. “Just trying to lighten the mood.”

Two agents came in the back, weapons drawn. One spoke into his radio, “Subject in custody, agent down.”

Mr. Blue was cuffed and hauled out the back of the restaurant, while Sandor helped Bronn up. The second agent covered them as they were rushed into an ambulance.

*******

A few days later, Sandor was back in London while Bronn was convalescing at a safe house. Sandor returned to MI6 Head Quarters for debriefing. A secretary saw him as he came through security and rushed over.

“There you are, Mr. Clegane. M’s been looking for you. You’d better get up there right away.”

Sandor nodded, and headed for the lift. Just as the doors started to close, he heard a young woman’s voice ask him to hold the door. He held his hand out to stop the doors and she slipped in. Sandor hit the button again, and turned to glance at the woman out of the corner of his eye.

She was beautiful, but then, many of the women at MI6 were. Auburn hair hung down her back nearly to her waist, which Sandor couldn’t help but notice was very slender. “What floor?” he asked.

“Same one as you.”

He turned to look at her again, this time appraising for more than just beauty. A flick of his eyes took in the black pencil skirt and green blouse she wore. It didn't seem to bother her that he was inspecting her, as she continued staring straight ahead, waiting for the lift to stop.

The door slid open and Sansa stepped forward. “Your shoelace is untied,” she said over her shoulder as she exited the car.

Sandor gaped at her then glanced down at the loose lace. “How the hell?” She’d never even looked at him.

Sandor stepped out before the doors shut on him, and bent down to tie his lace, then headed over to M’s office. He didn’t see the girl, maybe she’d gone to another office.

Moneypenny spotted him. “There you are, Clegane. They’re waiting for you. Go on in”

Sandor frowned. He didn’t like how everybody was treating him like he was late, when in reality, he’d never been given instructions about when to arrive. How could he be late when nobody had told him what time to show up?

Sandor held his tongue, though, and opened the door. Conversation, which had been quiet before, ceased until the door was shut. M stood behind his desk and waved Sandor over.

“Ah, Clegane. There you are. Now we’re all here.”

Sandor took a look at the other agents. There was Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy, both of whom Sandor knew by reputation. They’d been working undercover in Italy for the past three years. Good agents, if a little young. Robb Stark gave him an easy smile, while Theon Greyjoy looked more like Robb's shadow, sallow and thin. Sandor heard he’d been captured for a time, and it seemed to have affected him. He sat on the outskirts of the group, biting his nails.

The other man Sandor knew by reputation if not by sight. But who else could it be, leaning against the wall in his expensive suit from Saville Row, hair perfectly coifed, looking like he hadn’t a care in the world? Bond paid him no mind, as he was almost outright staring at the sixth occupant in the room, a young woman in a pencil skirt and green blouse with long red hair.

“Let me make introductions. Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy, I believe you know. They’ve been our top agents in Italy these last few years. Sandor Clegane has been in Algiers, following codename Mr. Blue, until we were able to take him into custody. Then of course, we’ve got out top man, James Bond, who’s just came back from an operation in Moscow last month.”

M swiveled away from them to turn on a projector pointed at the wall behind his office. Sandor glanced at the young woman, whom M failed to introduce. If she was annoyed at this snub, she didn’t show it, merely crossed her legs and pursed her lips slightly. She flicked her eyes at him, then focused on the presentation. Sandor tried to do the same.

“We’ve had a break in the case of our double agent. Bond recovered a briefcase in Paris three days ago-”

“Did you really, Mr. Bond?” The girl had interrupted M, something almost unheard of. All eyes turned to her. “All on your own? How simply smashing.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

Bond looked sheepish. “Well, I never could have done it without your help.”

She raised a single eyebrow.

“My dear, I’m so sorry. Gentlemen, this is Sansa Stark. She worked with Bond on the Paris operation, and provided vital assistance with recovering the case. Inside the case, we were able to find documents indicating the existence of a British double-agent.”

Sandor snuck another look at Sansa, who was listening intently, except she also seemed to be examining him out of the corner of her eye. That must be how she noticed his shoelaces without looking directly at him.

He turned his attention back to M. “And two days ago, Clegane here brought in codename Mr. Blue, who we’ve long suspected of running Russian counter-intelligence out of French Algiers. Under interrogation, he also has confirmed: we have a traitor in our midst. I understand your partner was injured during the operation?”

Sandor nodded. “Bronn Blackwater, yes. He should fully recover.”

M nodded, although it couldn’t have been news to M, seeing as how he was head of the department. But Sandor supposed it was nice of him to think of it. Sandor could tell Bronn next time he went to see him that the Head of MI6 had asked after him.

“I’m very glad to hear it. But you’ll be needing a new partner, and we have a double-agent to ferret out. So all of you are soon going to be going on a new assignment.”

He turned back to the projector, flipped the slide to show a photograph of a man, in his forties, accompanied by a beautiful young woman. “This is Petyr Baelish. We’ve got word that he’s supposed to be meeting with the double-agent to pass on vital intelligence about our undercover agents on Russian soil. If we don’t prevent the double-agent from meeting with Baelish, the lives of hundreds of agents will be at risk, as well as the intelligence they carry. If they are caught, they will be tortured and killed. However, if we don’t catch the double-agent, he may slip past us back into the shadows, and we may never find out who he is. We’ve got to catch him while he’s out in the open.”

M turned the slide to a picture of a stunning woman with long curly hair, amazing cleavage, and a sexy, simpering smirk. “The exchange is happening in five days in Rome, not counting today. Your contact there will be Margaery Tyrell, she’s Italian Intelligence.”

“M, with all due respect, why would one of our agents be making an exchange in Rome? What excuse would they have for going there without raising suspicion? Wouldn’t it be easier to monitor our agents, and find out which one is travelling to Rome in five days?”

Sandor had to admit Sansa had a point. He liked her confidence, too. Any other woman in a room like this would have been intimidated, but Sansa Stark spoke her mind, seemingly whenever she felt like it.

“I see your point, Sansa, but no, we can’t rely on that tactic. For all we know, our double-agent may have a perfectly benign reason for being in Rome, some cover story they’ve cooked up. They might slip their tail. If they find they have a tail, they might send a messenger in their stead, someone who has no connection to MI6. No, we don’t want to tip off the traitor, that’s the second most important rule, right after, ‘don’t let the drop happen’. Other questions?”

After a moment, M moved on. “Right then, Stark and Greyjoy, you’ll continue working together, as usual. Clegane, try out our Bond here, see if you think he’s got what it takes. Sansa will accompany you to act as your-” he paused as though looking for the right word.

“Secretary,” Sandor heard Sansa hiss under her breath, so low he was probably the only one who heard her.

“Support,” M finished. “Wheel’s up in six hours, everyone. Bond, Stark, see Q about equipment. Greyjoy, Clegane, get cracking on these dossiers. Sansa-”

“Yes, M? What dreadfully important task can I do for you? Queen and Country, you know that’s what I always say.” She sounded so sincere, this time, all trace of sarcasm gone, but Sandor could see she narrowed her eyes just the tiniest bit, head cocked a little too far.

“Would you be a dear and get me a coffee? Black, there’s a good girl.”

“If you’re going, I’ll have one, too. Be a good girl,” Theon started teasing her as the four men followed Sansa out of M's office.

“Only if you want arsenic for breakfast, Mr. Greyjoy,” Sansa grumbled as she stomped to the coffee cart that was parked behind Moneypenny’s desk.

One of the secretary’s waved Theon and Sandor over to a smaller debriefing room, holding an armful of dossiers. Sandor grimaced, not looking forward to reading a million pages in the next six hours. Stark headed towards the lifts, while Bond started ingratiating himself with Moneypenny. Sandor waved Greyjoy on. “Just be a minute.”

He wandered over to the coffee cart and waited behind Sansa. “I’m not getting you coffee,” she said evenly.

“I was just waiting til you were done.”

She turned around and sized him up, eyes raking up and down his frame. “Clegane, right?”

He nodded. Sansa stood aside, walking back into M’s office to deliver the coffee. Sandor began to fix his own cup, as Bond began to wrap up his flirtation with Moneypenny. He walked out from behind her desk as Sansa came out of M’s office, walking right into Bond, who took the opportunity to grab her waist.

“Let go, please.” Her voice was calm and even, but her eyes were dancing. Sandor couldn’t tell if she was livid or trying hard to suppress deep passion.

“Don’t get excited, Miss Stark,” he smiled at her, shifting her to the side so he was no longer in her way. Sansa shot him one last dark look, then headed to the debriefing room where Theon had the dossiers.

Sandor looked back at Bond, then took a long sip of his coffee. “You two worked together in Paris?”

“Hmm? Oh yes. Quite a big help she was to me. She even did a little spying.”

With a wink Bond headed to the lifts. Sandor sipped at his coffee again.

So that’s how it was. She was one of those girls, those Bond girls. Sure, maybe she was smart, but she was only here for one reason, to be Bond’s eye candy, carry his bag, fetch M’s coffee. She wasn’t a real agent. Meanwhile, hard-working stiffs like him and Bronn could only dream of being in M’s office to fill-in in a pinch, because Bond needed a partner, and the last one had retired, or been eaten by a shark, or run off with a sexy Russian agent, or whatever the hell happened to all of Bond's partners.

It just seemed terribly unfair to him that he had worked so hard for these opportunities, and Miss Stark, no doubt related to Robb and former section head Ned Stark, beautiful and young, had been handed her spot in MI6, and then had the gall to be ungrateful and sarcastic. He couldn’t think of anyone he would rather work with less than Sansa Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Sandor. Sansa's really going to enjoy proving you wrong. :)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Any feedback would be much appreciated!


	3. Room with a View of Conflict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tension builds between Sansa and Sandor.

_Sansa_

The secretary tried to set the stack of dossiers on the table in the briefing room, but accidentally spilled them across the table. Sansa reached down to pick one up off the floor as Greyjoy leaned over to chat up the secretary, who made a soft giggling noise.

“What are you doing now? Lunch?”

“It’s 11 AM, sir.”

“Well, early lunch then. Come on, I’m sure you won’t be missed.”

Sansa straightened back up. “Greyjoy, go flirt somewhere else.”

Greyjoy grinned at the secretary, shrugged one shoulder as if to say, “You heard the lady,” then followed her to the door. Just as they reached it, the door opened and Clegane walked in. Greyjoy raised his eyebrows at him, and followed the secretary out, shutting the door behind him.

Clegane turned back to Sansa, who had finally finished stacking the dossiers. “Is he coming back?”

Sansa sat down, picked up a dossier, kicked her heels up on the desk while leaning her chair back so the front legs came a few inches off the ground, and shrugged. “Probably not. They always leave the dossiers to me.”

Clegane glanced at her legs, then back to Sansa's face uncertainly. “But these could be important.”

Sansa peeked at him over the top of the page. “And I couldn’t possibly do it properly, is that right?”

He didn’t say anything, just sat down and took a folder from the stack, flipped open the cover and began to read. Sansa stared at him a minute, then shrugged her shoulders and went back to reading. She studied him out of the corner of her eye as she read. He certainly was interesting-looking, tall, built like a brick house. A long thin scar on the right-side of his face, hidden behind a few locks of hair that he combed over his forehead. While he certainly looked strong enough to punch his way out of any mishap he might find himself in, Sansa wondered if MI6 ever remembered that undercover work occasionally required going unnoticed. This two-meter-tall behemoth with thighs the size of tree trunks would never blend into a crowd. But his eyes interested her, like flints of grey steel. She’d never seen eyes that color before, pale but with almost no blue.

He was halfway through the first dossier when Sansa finished her second, tossing it onto the table. He looked up at her and almost rolled his eyes. Sansa saw it as she reached for another folder.

“What?”

He didn’t answer at first, just shook his head. Then he muttered something that sounded a lot like, “If you’re not going to even read them…”

Sansa’s feet hit the floor so hard it was a wonder she didn’t break a heel. “Excuse me?”

Clegane looked up a little startled at her outburst. “I just meant, if you don’t want to really read them, you can leave them with me. I’ll take care of it.”

“You think I’m not really reading them?”

“You can’t have read them that fast.”

Sansa felt her chin jut forward, a warning sign that she was getting really ticked off. She grabbed one of the folders and practically threw it at Clegane. “Pick a page.”

Clegane started to look uncomfortable. “Look, I don’t care. If you say you’ve read them.”

“Pick… a page!”

Clegane sighed, flipped open the cover, and flipped to a random page.

“Start reading.”

“’Anthony Riscotto, code-named Mr. Blue, has holdings in a wide range’-”

“’Wide range of interests, from coal, forestry, to mining and munitions. Riscotto factories produced over 10,000 long-range rifles for the Soviet Union last year, netting his interests over $2 million profit last year alone. He is on schedule to earn a total of $1.65 million in 1964 from military facilities in the Soviet Union that he rents to the Unites States, France, China, and Great Britain.’ You want me to go on?”

Clegane stared at her, and Sansa couldn’t help but revel in the look of astonishment on his face. “How did you do that?”

“I have an eidetic memory, jackass. If I can read it, I can remember it word for word. I can also read twice as fast as most people. That’s why no one else bothers with the dossiers, you’ll never remember it as well as I can.”

Clegane stood up, tossed his dossier onto the pile, knocking one over. “Well, you could have told me,” he muttered as he headed to the door.

“You could have asked, instead of assuming I have nothing of value to add to this team. You’re just like all the rest. Now get out and let me read in peace.”

Clegane stood at the door, glowering at her for a moment before opening the door and stalking out, letting the door slam behind him.

Sansa had to sit for a moment and let her temper ebb. She was so angry she could punch a wall. She was sick and tired of these men who assumed they had all the answers, that as a woman, she must inherently have less knowledge and experience than them. Sansa folded her arms, leaned her head against her arms and stared off into the distance for a few minutes. She wondered what her father would have said if he were here. He’d always said she could do anything she put her mind to, but he never bothered to tell her about all the men who would try to hold her back.

Sansa sat up, breath even, heart rate back to normal. She wiped at the corner of one eye with her thumb, wrinkling her nose at the moisture she found there. She picked up the dossier and began to read, suddenly dreading the coming mission, although she should have been excited, by all rights. It was a much bigger mission than she’d ever got to go on before.

But that man, that oaf! She couldn’t think of anyone she would rather work with less than Sandor Clegane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, mutual loathing! The scene is set! Again, sorry for all of the sexism. It'll get better, but it will also become something Sansa learns to use to her advantage. Sandor will soon learn the error of his ways, however, and appreciate Sansa for the bas-ass she is.
> 
> Also, I've tried to portray eidetic memories in a realistic way. I know they can be way over-used. Basically, Sansa's can recall what she's seen very clearly, and she's made that work in her favor, as well.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!!!


	4. Bad Blood

_Sansa_

Three hours later, Sansa left the briefing room and went to stand by Moneypenny’s desk. The desk’s owner was starting to look frazzled, as much as she ever did anyway, under her carefully poised expression. Sansa could tell from her overly tight grip on her pen, the slight strained expression to the smile she flashed Sansa.

“All done?” she asked the younger girl. “That’s got to be some kind of record.”

“Coffee?” Sansa asked, already fixing one for herself and the secretary.

Moneypenny sighed, “Thank you, dear. That would be lovely.”

Sansa smiled at the term of endearment as she poured the coffee. She wondered then why it was so different when Moneypenny called her dear and let her fetch her coffee, versus M. Well, first of all, Moneypenny would never ask, especially not in front of all of the male agents she would have to work with over the next few days, probably weeks. Besides, Moneypenny was sweet, the way she handled all of the agent’s advances and leering and wheedling to get more of M’s time than he wanted to give them. She worked as hard as any man in that office, with little thanks and less pay.

Though Moneypenny did put up with a lot of leering from some of the agents, Sansa knew that, deep down, Moneypenny did have a soft spot for Bond. Sansa could see the appeal. He was handsome, and he could really be very sweet, when he wasn’t putting on a show of male bravado. She had seen them together when they thought no one was looking. One time, coming out of the debriefing room very late, Sansa had even spotted Bond fetching Moneypenny a cup of coffee as the secretary slogged through typing some last-minute reports. They were talking together in low voices; Sansa couldn’t hear the words, but she could see the soft easy smiles on their faces, completely different from the smug smirks they wore when they were openly flirting, or rather, Bond was flirting with Moneypenny, who was expertly side-stepping his advances. Bond had come to stand behind Moneypenny, and his hand just brushed the back of her bare arm, her suit jacket slung on the back of her chair. Sansa saw a light flush come over Moneypenny’s cheeks, which they both ignored, of course. Sansa smiled to herself and tiptoed away before either saw her and put their hardened, callous masks back on.

Moneypenny was clearly head-over-heels for Bond, and he obviously had a special affection for her, different from all of the flings he had while out on assignment. Sansa had wondered for a few months after spying them, whether they were ever going to act on their feelings. But Sansa came to realize Moneypenny was too afraid she would get hurt, a valid fear as Bond was a well-known rake and a shameless ladies-man. Sansa was less clear on how Bond felt, but she could imagine he was just as afraid of hurting Moneypenny. So they continued to flirt, with that running under-current of respect and affection.

“I sent someone to your flat to pack for you,” Moneypenny’s voice cut through Sansa’s wool-gathering. Sansa brought her the coffee cup, leaning down on the desk and slipping one foot out her shoe to rest from the high heel.

“Oh, Moneypenny, you’re the best. You sent one of the ladies, right?”

Moneypenny answered her question with a quick roll of her eyes. “Of course! As if I could ever get one of the boys to do something so menial. Besides, if I let a man pack for you, you’d end up with twenty pairs of underwear, thirty brassieres, twelve bikinis, and one pair of shoes.”

Sansa was in stitches at Moneypenny’s very apt portrait of a man packing for a woman based solely on what he’d like to see her wear, rather than what was practical and necessary. Moneypenny’s face suddenly went serious, her eyes flicking to a spot over her shoulders. Sansa straightened up immediately, foot searching for her shoe.

“Can I help you, Mr. Clegane?” Moneypenny asked evenly, in her pleasant, but strictly business tone. Sansa cringed. Of course it would be Clegane that would catch her unawares.

“Just checking to see if Miss Stark was finished with the dossiers.”

Sansa turned to face him. “Yes, I just finished. I was just discussing the packing of my personal effects with Miss Moneypenny.”

“Did you need me to send someone to your flat to pack for you, Mr. Clegane?” Moneypenny asked.

Clegane shrugged his shoulder. “No need, I’m still packed from Algiers. Miss Stark, Mr. Stark was looking for you.”

Sansa smiled. “Yes, he’s so helpless without me. Where is he?”

“Down in tactical.”

Sansa downed her coffee in one quick movement, throwing her head back. Moneypenny reached out to take the cup.

“Thank you,” Sansa smiled at her. “If I don’t see you, have a good weekend.”

“I’m sure you will, darling,” Moneypenny shot back with a wicked smile.

Sansa couldn’t believe it, a small flush actually crept over her cheeks. “Stop,” she scolded. Moneypenny’s wicked smile only widened.

“Take good care of her, Mr. Clegane.”

Clegane was just as chagrined as Sansa. He didn’t reply, just turned on her heel and stalked off to the lifts. Sansa gave Moneypenny a look and just shook her head. Sansa went to stand next to Clegane as they waited for the lift. Sansa felt the silence grow. She was tempted to let it grow, but really hated the idea that Clegane would think she was one of those girls.

“Ignore Moneypenny. She was just having her little joke.”

A gruff grunt was all Sansa got in response. The lift door opened, and Clegane bolted in, followed by Sansa. She thought as the doors shut it was going to be a long few days.

_Sandor_

Sandor didn’t say anything for the ride down to tactical.

He had rebuffed Sansa’s attempts to laugh off Moneypenny’s comments. It had only confirmed his opinions of the young Miss Stark, that Moneypenny would even make such a joke when he’d never known Moneypenny to joke before, at least never in front of him. It was a very pointed barb, to imply that Sansa would be having a good weekend because she would be going on a trip with four young men, Sandor knew what that meant, all right. But since one of the men was her brother, one didn’t seem to have any interest in her at all, and the third was him, a scarred, ugly brute, he could guess very well who Moneypenny thought would be giving Sansa a good time this weekend. Apparently it was common knowledge what went on between them. Between an agent and, well, whatever Sansa Stark was.

The lift doors opened, and Sansa stepped out, quickly spotting her brother and walking over to him. Sandor went to the table where he’d had his gear laid out, resumed cleaning his guns, what he’d been doing before Robb Stark asked him nicely enough if he would mind going to find his sister. Sandor didn’t really appreciate being treated as an errand boy, but Stark was in the middle of packing some important munitions, and didn’t want to get off on his inventory counts. Besides which, he couldn’t find any of those damn girls this place employed by the dozen. Apparently, they all like to go out to lunch at the same time, and were gone for far longer than they should be. Sandor accepted the task genially enough. It wasn’t like his guns couldn’t wait.

“Sansa,” Stark cried a little too loudly, Sandor looked up the catch a wary look on Sansa’s face.

“What do you want? I swear, if you dragged me down here for something silly or-”

Her face fell as Stark procured a pair of what appeared to be lacy knickers from his pocket.

“What the hell?” she asked.

“Found these in the shooting range.”

“So?”

“You were one of the last ones in there last night.”

“They’re not mine,” she spit out through gritted teeth.

“Are you sure?”

“Is this really why you brought me down here?”

Stark relented, tucking the pants back in his pocket. “Of course not. Need you to double-check my numbers.”

Sansa let out a sigh, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back. Clegane had been trying to ignore them, but couldn’t help watch from the corner of his eye. “I could really kill you.”

“And break our poor mum’s heart?” Stark tsked.

Sansa snatched the clipboard from Stark and, for a moment, Sandor thought she was about to hit him over the head. “Get out of here, at least, and let me work.”

Stark bent to kiss the top of her head affectionately, though Sansa swatted him with the clipboard, and settled in to counting magazines as Stark entered the lift.

Sandor continued cleaning his guns, wanting to speak to Sansa, but not wanting to interrupt her counting. He busied himself with his guns, though there wasn’t really much left for him to do except pack the guns up. It only took Sansa five minutes to finish counting all the magazines, bullets, and shotgun shells they had been allotted to the mission. As she made some final notes on the clipboard, she spoke.

“Those guns seem pretty well-cleaned by now.”

Sandor froze, then proceeded with packing the guns. “Yeah, I guess they are.”

He waited for her to speak again, but she didn’t, seeming to be perfectly content with the silence. “They really make you do all this shit? And you do it?”

Sansa glanced at him, fastening the clasps on the munitions case. “’Course, why do you think I’m here? It’s either that or go back to the typing pool.”

Sandor wasn’t big on regret. He didn’t like to look back, it only made you hesitate in the future. But he had to admit, he’d judged Sansa Stark too harshly. He finished stowing his guns, then turned to her, forcing himself to look at her face and not at the floor. He’d ask her pardon, but not like a school boy.

“Look, I owe you an apology. We got off on the wrong foot, and that’s completely my fault. I thought a gir- young woman who looks like you and has your family must not really belong here. But I see you’re smart as a whip and they clearly depend on you a lot, too much, given the shit they make you put up with. What I’m trying, very inelegantly to say is that I don’t want you to think I’m like them. I didn’t have an issue with you ‘cause you’re a woman, and I don’t expect you to do all my work. I’m an asshole, but I’m not a misogynist.”

Sansa cracked a small smile at that. “Well, I like anyone who can admit they’re an asshole.”

“So, are we good? I don’t want to have any bad blood between us, especially since we’ll be working so closely.”

Sansa held out her hand to him, and Sandor took it, shaking it twice. He couldn’t help but notice how soft her hand was, except for a few callouses on her palm. “Truce,” Sansa said with a smirk.

“Good,” he said, letting her hand go. “I wouldn’t want to have that razor wit turned against me at our next briefing.”

He was rewarded with a full smile this time, and Sandor distantly noticed that she had a dizzying smile, though it vanished when she heard the lift doors open. She turned her head to the doors, her sardonic half-smile back on her face. She smiled when she recognized the secretary who stepped out.

“Sansa, there you are! M is looking for you and Mr. Clegane.”

Sandor turned to Sansa with a smirk. “You’d think this place would invest in an intercom system.”

“There is one, in some of the rooms, but M can’t be bothered to learn how to use it, so he insists on using the secretaries. Shall we?”

Sandor followed Sansa into the lift, forcing himself to look up at the ceiling instead of down at her legs. _No, you don’t_ , he internally chastised himself. _You’re not going to get a crush just because she was nice to you once_.

Sansa tossed her hair over her shoulder, and a wave of her subtle perfume wafted over to him, floral and earthy.

 _Shit_.


	5. More Bar Flies with Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor get sent on an important mission.

_Sansa_

M looked up as they opened the door and walked in, Sansa first and then Clegane. “Ah, there you are. One of our informants just made contact, they want to meet to relay important information about the double-agent. I’m putting you on the case, Miss Stark. Clegane, you’ll go along to provide backup in case anything goes afoul.”

Sansa could have been knocked over with a feather. “You want me to make contact with the informant? Don’t think I’m not grateful for the opportunity, but why aren’t you sending one of the morons?”

M frowned at her. “You mean an actual agent? This contact’s a little squirrely, but he seems to do better with female agents. Nearly every time I send a man, he bolts and never meets with them. I don’t think he trusts them.”

Sansa sat down in front of M’s desk, frowning. “What do we know about him?”

“That’s need to know, Miss Stark. Here’s the meeting place and time. You’ve got about an hour. When you meet him, he’ll ask you if you think it will snow tomorrow. Tell him it never snows on Mondays. Remember everything you can about what he says and how he looks, then report back immediately. The meeting place is a club, bit of a beatnik affair, from what I’ve heard, so try to blend in. Moneypenny said something about getting you more appropriate clothes.”

M turned his gaze back to his paperwork, a sure sign that they were dismissed. Sansa stood and left the room, followed by a bemused-looking Clegane. They met at Moneypenny’s desk to discuss the meeting.

“I can’t believe it, an actual assignment!” She was practically giddy with excitement.

“Can’t be your first?” Clegane asked, looking around for Moneypenny.

“Well, the first to collect actual information. Usually I’m sent to lift something or direct a mark to a certain location for a real agent to bring in. I hope I remember everything.”

“Thought you had an idiot memory, or whatever.”

Sansa laughed. “Eidetic memory. It’s only useful for things I read. I can recall visual images very well, but remembering things that are said to me is trickier. I basically have the same retention as everyone else. But I’ll remember what he looks like all right!”

Moneypenny finally appeared, carrying a box of clothes. “Sorry for the wait, I was busy digging up some clothes for your rendezvous. Can’t have you looking like squares, can we?” she grinned at Sansa.

Sansa glumly inspected the dress Moneypenny had found for her, short, tight, and black. “Oh, can’t it ever be trousers?”

“Sorry, Sansa. You know how M feels about that.”

She looked at the neckline, low, of course. “Where am I going to hide my gun?”

Moneypenny produced a pair of knee-high black boots. “Will these help?”

“Much better. Thank you. How far away is this place?”

Moneypenny glanced at her slim wristwatch. “It’s about a thirty-minute cab ride. You’d better get ready.”

Sansa nodded. “Meet you back here in five minutes?” she asked Clegane.

“I don’t know if I want anybody to see me in this.”

“I have to wear a mini-skirt and go-go boots, and you’re complaining about black?” she shook her head and stalked off to the washrooms, which had a sizeable dressing room attached. She strapped a holster around her calf before pulling on and zipping up the black boots. The dress hugged her like a glove, Sansa wondered how Moneypenny had one in her exact size. To finish the look, Sansa drew on a heavy line of kohl black eyeliner, and an application of deep red lipstick. She fluffed her hair and examined herself in the full-length mirror. She supposed she’d do. She appreciated the low heel on the boots, only two inches, so she’d be able to run if she needed to.

Once she’d changed, she waited for Clegane outside the lifts. She started tapping her foot impatiently. Where was he? She still had to get down to tactical and check out a gun. She heard a step behind her and turned, hitting the button to call the lift as she did.

“Finally, what took so long?” She looked Clegane up and down, not sure why, but he looked different. She barely suppressed a giggle. He looked good without the suit, honestly. Tight black pants and a tight black sweater. He looked very uncomfortable.

“Moneypenny must not have had your size,” she remarked, then blushed slightly. The lift arrived and Sansa stepped in, followed by Clegane, who was muttering that he felt like a damn fool.

“You look fine,” Sansa said with finality, hitting the button for tactical. “Quick stop, I need to check out a gun.”

“What, why?”

“I don’t get to have one all the time, they don’t trust me with it. Besides, I’m not a full-time agent. Only on loan.”

Sansa quickly checked out her Walther PPK, checked the magazine, reloaded it and set the safety, then strapped it into the holster under her right boot. It wasn’t ideal, she’d have to unzip the boot slightly to be able to reach it, but she was gratified to see that the addition of the gun was mostly unnoticeable.

The agent behind the desk gawked at her when she straightened, but covered it quickly by wishing her luck.

She eyed Clegane as they rode the lift up to street level and headed toward the back entrance that would take them down a side street.

“Where’s your gun?”

He grimaced, then smirked. “Under my arm. It’s bloody uncomfortable. Can you tell it’s there?” He motioned to his right arm.

She fell back to inspect his back. “No, it’s pretty well lodged in your armpit, I take it,” then laughed at his uncomfortable grunt. “Now you know what it’s like trying to hide a gun in skin-tight clothing. Come on, let’s get a cab.”

M hadn’t been wrong about the club, though Sansa didn’t know if beatnik was the right word. She reminded herself that M was a bit older, and probably a little dismissive in general about younger people and modern music, as most of England was. Sansa found herself appreciating the music, though she had to remind herself that she was not here to party. She glanced at Clegane, he was already in surveillance mode, eyes raking over the crowds, pretty packed for such an early hour, barely 1700. Without speaking, Sansa went to the bar to get a drink, while Clegane began to circle the room.

The bar was crowded, which was fine with Sansa, she used the opportunity to survey the crowd. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but felt sure she would know it when she saw it. The crowd was young, mostly early-twenties, many of them university students. Clegane didn’t stand out too much, as there were a few older men. Sansa wondered briefly how old the man was, and made a mental note to ask him sometime. He didn’t look much older than his early thirties, perhaps.

Suddenly the bartender was at her elbow, and Sansa chided herself for getting distracted. She ordered a gin and tonic, paying for the drink with a few coins from the small purse Moneypenny had loaned her with all the essentials, some petty cash, a lipstick and compact, as well as a knife, a radio transponder, and a discrete cannister of pepper gas. Sansa took her drink and found a spot to stand, where she hoped she would stick out without looking obvious. Her eyes continued to scan the crowd, although she adopted a look she hoped was casual. She decided to pretend like she was looking for a friend.

She soon found herself sticking out a little too much. After the third man who came up asking for a dance, without the pass phrase, Sansa worried these guys would end up chasing off the contact. Sansa started to despair when the fourth man approached her, black hair a little longer than M would have ever approved of, falling well past his chin in waves, wearing tight black pants and a short-sleeved black T-shirt. “Do you think it will snow tomorrow?” he leaned towards her ear, having to shout to make himself heard over The Hollies blasting from the dance floor.

Sansa leaned in to him. “It never snows on Monday.”]

The man nodded, “Care to dance?”

Sansa agreed, leaving her empty glass on a table she passed on the way to the dance floor. She caught sight of Clegane in a crowd to the left, and made a mental note to remind him to look a little less stern next time. People were looking at him like he was a bouncer, though Sansa suspected she’d appreciate that intimidating demeanor if things went poorly.

The contact led her to the center of the dance floor, where the music was loudest, and took her hand, sliding his arm around her waist. They were dancing a bit closer than the music called for, most of the other couples were holding hands and twisting to the upbeat song. Sansa didn’t think they looked too out of place, though, and the contact did take her left hand in his right, and they began to sway.

“The meeting’s been pushed back,” he said, having to speak directly into her ear so she could hear him. “It’s now taking place in the middle of the month. Don’t have a specific date yet.”

“Why?”

“My understanding is that the agent’s been delayed.”

She opened her mouth to ask if he meant the double-agent, but the contact shook his head. “Let’s just say the one you’re looking for has been delayed.”

“Do you know his name?”

The contact scoffed. “They don’t tell me stuff like that. I’m not here to do your job for you, or your boss’s job. That’s all I have. Report back to the lion, now, little bird.”

He left her without another word, and Sansa turned to make her way to back entrance, where Sandor would meet her in a few minutes, per their arrangement. She felt his large presence behind her, solid and comforting, as she walked as confidently as she could through the service area of the bar, through the back entrance to a quiet back alley.

“Come on,” Clegane murmured, taking her arm and pushing her to walk in front of him, all the while Sansa was muttering furiously to herself. Clegane flagged down a taxi, pushed her into the car, and gave the driver an address. Sansa wondered dimly where they were going, that wasn’t the address for MI6. But then she assumed they must be going to a safehouse, in case they were being followed.

She ignored everything as she repeated the words in her head over and over again: Would you care to dance? The meeting’s been pushed back. It’s now taking place in the middle of the month. Don’t have a specific date yet. My understanding is that the agent’s been delayed. Let’s just say the one you’re looking for has been delayed. They don’t tell me stuff like that. I’m not here to do your job for you, or your boss’s job. That’s all I have. Report back to the lion, now, little bird. Would you care to dance?

How could a conversation that barely lasted three minutes be the most important moment of her life? It wasn’t of course, but it felt like that to her at the time. Clegane said nothing during the taxi drive, but as soon as they were out of the car, he led her into a diner, pushed past the hostess to a booth in a back room. He borrowed a piece of paper and pencil from a waitress, pushed it into Sansa’s hands.

She wrote it out quickly while Clegane ordered coffee for them both. She passed it to Clegane, who read it quickly.

“Did you memorize it now?” he asked, and Sansa nodded. She was suddenly extremely jittery, and didn’t know why. Sandor took out a lighter, glanced around to make sure no one was around, and lit the scrap of paper on fire, letting it burn in his fingers before dropping it in the ashtray. Soon nothing was left but ash. He quickly lit a cigarette as the waitress approached with their coffees.

“Message for you,” she slid him a piece of paper, then walked away.

Clegane glanced at it, then crumpled it up and dropped it in the ashtray. “Car’s on it’s way. We’ll leave out the back in five minutes. You should drink, though. You look like you’re fair bursting with adrenaline.”

Sansa mixed sugar into her coffee, took a sip, then another. The hot coffee soothed her nerves a little, but she couldn’t help bouncing her leg.

“You did well in there,” Clegane observed coolly, slate grey eyes studying her. “If you were nervous, you didn’t show it.”

Sansa sighed, and it was like some of the nerves soothed away. “Oh, I was nervous! You looked like a bouncer, you know.”

Clegane scowled, and Sansa laughed. “I was covering the room,” he growled.

“Well you could do it looking a little less like a bulldog.”

Clegane finally cracked a smile, as he dropped a pound note for the coffees and stood up. “If I’m a bulldog, I guess that makes you the little bird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoy and are having a great weekend!


	6. All Roads. . .

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gets a promotion before the team heads to Rome

_Sandor_

Sandor followed Sansa into M’s office, tearing his eyes away from her bottom, round and perfect in her tight, short black dress. He had to remind himself he was somewhere around 10 years older than her, assuming she was as young as she looked. He’d had trouble keeping his eyes off her all night, and he felt slightly gross, though he couldn’t help it. What had possessed Moneypenny to pick out such a dress? The black perfectly offset her pale, creamy skin, brightened her flaming red hair, and the way it clung to all of her curves left little to the imagination. Even the neckline plunged down to display the tops of her cleavage.

M must have agreed with Sandor. He took one look at Sansa and cringed. “Miss Stark, can’t you put on a jumper or something? I can’t believe Miss Moneypenny sent you out looking like that.”

“I don’t have a jumper. And Miss Moneypenny knew exactly how to dress me, I fit right in at the meeting spot, which is the point, isn’t it? Maybe you should stop looking at me like a girl, and start thinking of me as an operative.”

M frowned at this, then took in Sandor next, eyes raking over the too-tight shirt and pants. He shook his head and looked back down at the papers in front of him. “The beatniks are out to ruin every trace of morality in this country. Report, then, operative.”

Sansa gave her briefing in a clear, steady voice, no trace of the nerves she’d been filled with just half an hour ago. She gave an extremely detailed description of the contact, down to the probable fiber content of his clothes. M finally gave a weary wave of his hand.

“Very thorough, Miss Stark. The message?”

“He asked me to dance, his exact words after I gave the coded response were ‘Would you care to dance?’ I nodded and we went to the center of the dance floor where the music was loudest, probably so we couldn’t be overheard. He told me, ‘The meeting’s been pushed back. It’s now taking place in the middle of the month. Don’t have a specific date yet.’”

M considered. “That’s exactly how he said it?”

“Word for word.”

M nodded. “Then what?”

“I asked why, he said ‘My understanding is that the agent’s been delayed.’ I was about to ask if he meant the double-agent, he stopped me and said, ‘Let’s just say, the one you’re looking for has been delayed.’ I asked if he knew the agent’s name. He seemed defensive. He said, “They don’t tell me that kind of stuff. I’m not here to do your job for you, or your boss’s job. That’s all I have. Report back to the lion, now, little bird.’ And then he left.”

M smirked. “Anything else?”

Sansa shook her head. “Why did he call you lion?”

M shrugged. “A nickname I have, I’m told. I don’t think it suits, but one doesn’t get to choose their own nicknames, do they? Little bird?”

Sansa flushed but didn’t say anything.

“You did well, Miss Stark. Please go change out of that hideous ensemble and tell Moneypenny to burn it when you’re done.”

Sansa stood and left the room without another word. Sandor started to stand, but M held his hand up to stop him. Once Sansa had shut the door behind her, M turned to Sandor.

“Anything to add, Mr. Clegane?”

“No, nothing. She did well. Worked the room without looking too obvious. Her looks could be a drawback on an op, she attracted a lot of…” Sandor hesitated, trying to think of the right word. “Interested parties.”

“She got chatted up by men who weren’t the contact?”

Sandor nodded. “Again, I don’t know if that’s a bad thing. It might make her cover look more convincing.”

“Then again, the extra attention may scare off a contact.”

Sandor nodded.

“What did you think of the conversation.”

Sandor shrugged. “She made a few missteps,” he admitted.

“But she reported them faithfully, that’s something. Didn’t try to hide it or make herself sound better. I can’t abide that.”

M lapsed into thought for a few moments, fingers steepled in front of his face, eyes unfocused, staring in the direction of his window. Sandor sat waiting for a dismissal. Finally, he broke the silence. “May I ask why you think the agent’s been delayed?”

That snapped M out of his reverie. “You may not. That’ll be all, Clegane.”

Sandor stood. “Are we still heading to Italy tonight?”

“Yes. It’s actually a blessing in disguise. It’ll give you and the other agents more time for ground work. That’s good.” He turned back towards the papers in front of him. “Tell Miss Stark she can keep the side-arm. I’m promoting her to agent.”

He pulled a paper towards him, Sandor spotted Sansa’s name on the top. M signed it quickly and handed it to Sandor. “Give that to Moneypenny, she’ll make it official.”

“Don’t you want to tell her yourself?”

“No. She’ll just get all weepy. I’m a busy man. That’s all.”

Sandor took the paper and the dismissal. He couldn’t help but glance down at the paper. Sansa’s new title came with a pay increase. He distantly registered that she was going to get paid half of what he did.

Sansa was standing at Moneypenny’s desk, back in her pencil skirt, green blouse, and heels. They turned toward him as he walked out.

“So, how did my performance review go?” she asked, mouth curled in a sardonic smile, although her eyes looked unsure.

He held out the paper. “Pretty well, I guess.”

Sansa glanced at the paper, then snatched it from him, eyes combing over the words eagerly. She looked back up at him, a wary look on her face. “An agent? This isn’t some kind of hazing exercise, is it?”

Moneypenny took the paper from her, smiling. “No prank, dear. That’s M’s signature. Congratulations.”

M had been worried she would get emotional; the reality was far from it. Sansa smiled to herself, accepted the pen that Moneypenny thrust into her hand, and signed the offer letter. “Does that mean I get to keep my gun?” she asked Sandor.

Sandor nodded, not trusting his voice to speak. A little lump had appeared in his throat, which was silly, of course. Why shouldn’t Sansa get promoted, she was competent enough. And why should he care?

Sandor quickly changed, relieved to be back in his suit, with his gun in its holster under his shoulder. When he returned to Moneypenny’s desk, Moneypenny was typing up copies to send to payroll, tactical, ops, and who knew what other departments. Sansa’s excitement was palpable.

“I wish we could go get a drink to celebrate.”

Sansa’s words had been ostensibly directed to Moneypenny, but then why had she also turned to Sandor, as though to include him in the invitation?

“No time, darling,” Moneypenny said. “You’ve got 30 minutes to get to the plane before you get left behind on your first assignment as an agent.”

“Shit,” Sansa muttered, and Sandor couldn’t help but laugh at her face.

“Don’t worry, dear. Car’s downstairs. Everyone else is gone, though, you’d better get going.”

“And our bags?”

“Already on the plane.”

Sansa leaned over the table to give Moneypenny a quick hug. “You’re a lifesaver, thank you!”

“Have a good time, dear! Don’t drive those boys too crazy!” She winked at Sandor as he turned to follow Sansa to the lifts.

If Sandor had thought Sansa was a bundle of nerves in the dinner, he was in no way prepared for the sudden anxiety that had befallen her in the car on the way to the private airport MI6 used for their travels. She crossed her legs, as if in an attempt to keep her muscles from fidgeting too much, but couldn’t seem to keep her foot from rapidly bouncing up and down. He tried to keep her distracted with casual conversation, but as the minutes ticked by, she lapsed into silence.

Finally, they were at the airport. Sandor flashed his ID, and the guard let them drive directly onto the tarmac, right up to the plane. They had minutes to spare.

The stewardess checked their IDs against her log, made two tic marks, then smiled and welcomed them aboard. They climbed the portable stairs, Sandor first so he wouldn’t be tempted to ogle Sansa’s legs, then boarded the plane. The stewardess shut the door behind them.

“We should be taking off in a few minutes. As soon as we’re in the air, I’ll check on you and bring you some refreshments.”

Sandor nodded his thanks, and walked back to the main cabin. It was a beautiful plane. In lieu of traditional plane seats, there were a dozen large seats towards the back, used for takeoff and landing. Spacious and plush, they were not your average accommodations. Then, farther forward toward the front of the plane, was a lounge area, with sofas and arm chairs, bolted to the floor, true, but still much more comfortable, especially for a large man like Sandor.

Sandor spotted Bond, Greyjoy, and Stark in the seats towards the back of the plane, and he headed back through the lounge to claim a seat. The seats were spaced two on each side of a central aisle, three rows of them. Stark and Greyjoy had claimed two seats next to each other, the two seemed joined at the hip, in the far back left. Bond had picked the aisle seat diagonal from Stark and Greyjoy, leaving two seats behind him, two seats in front of him, two seats across the aisle from him, and two seats diagonally in front. No matter where Sansa sat, it seemed that Bond had set himself up to be close to her.

Sandor picked the seat directly in front of Stark and Greyjoy, and Sansa elected for the seat in front of him. Sandor figured it shouldn’t be too bad. She could always pick another seat after takeoff, or stay in her seat while the others went to the more comfortable seats in the lounge. He wondered at her silence. When would she tell them about her promotion?

Sandor figured she would tell them in her own time, and strapped himself into the seat. The captain came on over the intercom, advised they would be taking off in a few minutes. The stewardess came by to make sure everyone was buckled in, then went back to the front of the cabin to strap in herself. The plane began to taxi, and soon took-off. Sandor glanced back at Sansa to see how she was faring, not sure if she was a nervous flier. But all her anxiety seemed to have vanished. She was looking serenely out of the window, smiling like she had a secret.

After a few minutes of ascent, and a lot of yawning to relieve the pressure building in his ears, the plane leveled out and the captain’s calm, even voice sounded once again over the intercom to let them know they’d reached cruising altitude, and it was safe to unbuckle.

Everyone but Sansa unbuckled and headed to the lounge. Stark stopped next to Sansa and asked if she wanted to come have a drink.

“I guess one drink wouldn’t hurt. Besides, I have something to celebrate.”

“What?” Sandor heard Stark ask, following her over to the lounge. “Tell me!”

The stewardess had just finished scrawling down Bond’s very specific drink order, something about a gin-vodka monstrosity, with instructions on how to mix it, then turned to Sandor. “Scotch, please, neat.”

He sat on the end of a comfortable looking sofa, as Stark ordered an old-fashioned, Greyjoy ordered a vodka martini, and Sansa her favorite gin and tonic. “Tanqueray, if you have it,” she said, before kicking off her shoes and settling onto the sofa at the opposite end from Sandor, tucking her legs up under her. Sandor couldn’t help but notice she had pretty feet, toes painted dark red. Bond looked miffed, took his seat at the end of the other sofa, with Stark and Greyjoy ensconced in the two overstuffed armchairs.

“Spill it, sis. What’s your good news?” Stark asked, once the stewardess returned with the tray, and everyone had sipped their drinks.

“You’re looking at MI6’s newest agent,” Sansa said proudly, taking a sip of her drink.

Stark beamed, Sandor thought he couldn’t have looked prouder if she’d announced she’d been elected Prime Minister. “Congratulations, Sansa. Seriously, no one deserves it more.” Stark raised his glass to her, leaned across the table in the center of the lounge, and gently clinked his glass against hers. Greyjoy followed Stark, murmuring “Cheers” as he touched his glass to hers. Then Bond leaned forward, and lastly, Sandor followed suit.

“ _Slàinte mhath_.”

Sansa smiled. “What’s that mean?”

“It’s Gaelic for ‘good health.’ It’s what we say instead of cheers. The Gaelic word for congratulations is kind of rubbish, so I’ll just say it in English.”

Sansa nodded, sipped her drink again. She was smiling and couldn’t seem to stop. The conversation soon moved on to the mission, to Italy. Stark and Greyjoy promised to show them all the best nightlife spots.

“You’ll love Rome, weather’s gorgeous. The food’s amazing. The women are beautiful,” Stark told Bond with a suggestive leer.

“It’s a beautiful place,” Greyjoy agreed, tossing back the rest of his drink. Sandor was a little surprise. No one else was more than halfway finished with their drinks. He held his glass up and wiggled it for the stewardess to see, who stepped behind the bar, mixed another one, and quickly traded the new glass for the old one.

Sandor tracked Greyjoy’s drinking. He was four drinks deep, to Sandor’s one, and everyone else’s two, when the captain came over the intercom.

“We’ll be landing at Rome in twenty minutes. Please return to your seats and strap in.”

The stewardess approached to collect the glasses, emptying them quickly and securing them in a locked cabinet. Sandor followed the other agents to their seats. He was surprised to see Theon barely swayed as he walked to the back of the plane, looking just a little sleepy. Sandor had no idea the man had such a high tolerance. He filed the knowledge into the back of his head, as the plane began its descent.

_Sansa_

They parted at the airport. Although they would be staying at the same hotel, they would arrive separately, with the covers Moneypenny had arranged for them. Clegane, Bond, and Greyjoy would each arrive separately, under the cover names Howard Conroy, John Snow, and Thomas Gordon, respectively. Robb was traveling as Richard Bronson, and Sansa had the alias Sarah Hawthorne. In a note, Moneypenny gave Sansa a full backstory, including the pretense that Sarah was travelling ahead of her husband Edward Hawthorne, who should be joining her in Rome in a few days. In case anyone asked why a young woman was travelling alone. The note was accompanied by a small, black velvet box.

Sansa opened the box in wonder. “She just has wedding rings at her desk?” Sansa slipped on the ring as she disembarked from the airplane and explained the cover story to the others.

Sansa was relieved to hear that they would all have separate rooms. She intended to get a good long sleep that night, and didn’t plan to let one of the other agent’s keep her up late with their snoring.

Clegane frowned as they walked down the stairs. “I understand the separate rooms for appearances, but I still think we should be doubling up for protection. Hotel rooms are all too easy to break into.”

“Well, you and Bond should feel free to bunk together, but I want at least one night to myself.”

“Fun plans?” Bond teased.

“Sleep. I’m exhausted.”

The agents filed into separate taxis. Sansa gave her driver the wrong address at first. When they arrived at a bank, Sansa played the part of confused tourist and told the driver she’d given him the wrong address by mistake, giving him the correct address to the hotel this time. The same ploy would be used by the other four agents, so that they would all end up arriving at the hotel from different directions, at different times. Sansa supposed she would have to get used to such duplicitous tactics.

Sansa arrived at the hotel at almost 2300, and checked in with the pretty blonde at the front desk. Then Sansa tipped the porter who carried her bag to her room, pretending to know nothing about the money, knowingly tipping the young man too much.

Sansa took a look around the room. It was a basic hotel room, little dresser, small TV, bathroom. She threw her bag on one of the beds, Moneypenny had gotten her a room with two queen beds for some reason, then unzipped the bag and began a cursory unpacking. Mostly, she just hung up anything that looked like it might wrinkle. She took her bag of personal toiletries to the bathroom, brushing her teeth and washing her face.

Sansa realized she’d forgotten to ask what time they were meeting the next morning. She almost left to go ask, but realized she didn’t know what rooms the others were in. Plus she really was exhausted, and she was sure someone would wake her up in the morning when she was needed. She undressed quickly and slipped into a nightgown. She hit the lights before collapsing into bed, and was asleep within minutes.


	7. Breakfast Italian Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and the team meet with Margaery for breakfast. Sansa and Sandor have an assignment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moodboard for chapter 7.

_Sansa_

Sansa woke in the morning to a tap on the door. She stood up and stumbled to the door, opening it sharply to find Clegane, already dressed for the day in a light-weight grey suit that perfectly complimented his eyes. Sansa mumbled her good morning, interrupting the last word with a wide yawn. When she had cleared the sleep from her eyes, she noticed Clegane staring at her, then diverting his gaze over the top of her head. Was he blushing?

Before she could ask him what was wrong, or work it out for herself, he pushed a piece of paper into her hand before turning and walking away.

Sansa shut the door, then caught sight of herself in the mirror mounted to the wall behind the door. She cursed robustly as she remembered the negligee she had thrown on the night before, the one she didn’t remember packing. This one was lacy, with thin straps that had tangled while she slept, one falling off her shoulder completely. Sansa was relieved to see she was still covered up, but only just. Sansa had to admit it was cute though, admiring her curves in the mirror. The color was dark as wine, which normally didn’t look good on her, but was just dark enough to not clash with her hair.

So hastily scrawled Sansa could hardly read it, was written “Meet at 60 Via de Monte Giordano at 0830.” Sansa crumpled the note, which was written on tissue paper, and flushed it down the toilet. It was 0800 now, so Sansa had about ten minutes to dress and get out the door. Luckily, the address was nearby. She wished she knew where they were meeting so she knew how to dress, but didn’t fancy the idea of chasing after Clegane to ask.

In the end she decided on a simple day dress, light green and modest, with cap sleeves that showed off her arms, a neckline that revealed only her collar-bone, and fell to just above the knee. She paired this with a wide-straw hat, under which she could tuck her hair in case she needed to blend in quickly in a crowd, though she left her hair down for now, big black sunglasses, and a pair of espadrille flats that tied around her ankle, in which she could walk all day if needed, and even run in a pinch. Beneath it all, Sansa wore her gun in her holster beneath her brassiere. The cut of the dress, tenting out slightly below the bust, helped to hide the slight bulge.

Sansa took up her purse, made sure she had her wallet, passport, petty cash, and room key in order before leaving. As she walked down the hallway, to the main staircase that flowed down from the second floor to the main floor like something out a beautiful opera house. She quickly surveyed the crowd, noticed Robb standing at the front desk, flirting with the receptionist and Greyjoy just leaving through the entrance, turning left. Sansa glanced behind her as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and spotted Clegane just beginning to descend the stairs.

Sansa followed Greyjoy out the door, turning to the left, joining the waves of people strolling down the sidewalks of Rome on a beautiful, sunny morning. Sansa followed in Greyjoy’s footsteps for a few blocks, but he headed straight through an intersection, and Sansa distinctly remembered having seen a quicker way from the map she’d perused yesterday at Moneypenny’s desk. She turned left, then right, then cut through a plaza. After a few minutes, she realized she was being followed. She ducked behind a building, pulled a cigarette out of her purse, and lit it as she waited to see who it was.

She smiled when Clegane crossed the alley, double-taking when he saw it was her. She held her index finger to her lips, then motioned for him to keep walking. After a few minutes, she followed him, smirking as she continued smoking her cigarette. She arrived at the address, a breakfast restaurant, a few minutes after Clegane. She spied Greyjoy at the end of the block, and laughed at the confused look on his face. She dropped her cigarette, put it out with a twist of her foot, then opened the door to the restaurant, and followed Clegane to a room at the back.

Bond was already seated at the small table. A set of folding screens blocked the table from the view of the front door, although the paper material was thin enough to see the door through small cut-outs. Sansa scooted around to the far side of the table to take her seat between Bond and Clegane. A server appeared and brought coffee for the two, pouring small cups of piping hot espresso, topping the little cups off with warm steamed milk. Sansa took a sip, reveling in the smooth, robust, although slightly bitter flavor of the coffee married with the plain, creamy flavor of the milk.

“They sure know how to make coffee here,” she murmured.

Greyjoy was the next to arrive. “How the hell did you two get here before me?” he asked, nonplussed as he took a seat next to Clegane.

“We took a shortcut, didn’t we?” Sansa asked Clegane with a conspiratorial look in her eye.

Clegane grunted, sipping his coffee.

Robb finally arrived with a big smile. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if he was getting lucky with the receptionist. He took the final seat, and the kindly older gentleman who had served coffee poured two more cups, then took their orders, insisting on taking her order first. He glanced down at her hand, and Sansa found herself glad she had worn her wedding ring. Who knew what the man would think if he saw a young un-married woman having breakfast with four men?

Sansa ordered in passable enough Italian. Bond’s Italian was good, if a little accented. Robb blew everyone out of the water with his perfect pronunciation and diction, Greyjoy’s was almost as good. The surprise was Clegane, though, whose Italian was not only quite good, it had a conversational air that Sansa’s and Robb’s lacked. The server nodded his head, left them to their coffee.

Sansa turned to Clegane. “I didn’t know you spoke Italian.”

He shrugged. “Spent a little time in Venice.”

Sansa smiled. His answer was vague and gruff, but not uncharacteristic. “Well it’s not on your dossier.”

The corner of Clegane’s mouth quirked. “Are you sure? Maybe you missed it.”

Sansa sipped her coffee, raising one eyebrow archly. She looked over to see Robb looking at her, a knowing expression on his face. Sansa gave him a wordless look back, mouthing _What?_

Robb shook his head and finished his coffee, lighting a cigarette.

“Do you have to smoke at the table, Robb?” Sansa complained, waving away the smoke.

He shrugged, but made an effort to blow his smoke up above the table instead of forward. The older man came by with more coffee. Everyone waved him off except Sansa. He gave her a little smile as he filled her cup. “ _E quasi pronto il pranzo_.”

Sansa smiled and nodded. “ _Grazi._ ”

“Everyone in Rome seems to love you, sis.”

Sansa shrugged, sipping her coffee. “He’s just being nice.”

“So, what’s the plan for today?” Clegane interrupted.

“Our contact is meeting us here in half an hour,” Greyjoy reported. The conversation halted as their server brought their food, plates of hash for Robb and Greyjoy, bacon and eggs for Bond, a _cornetto_ for Sansa, and a _panino_ for Clegane. Sansa requested more coffee, and the Italian filled up her cup a third time.

“ _Grazi. Veramenta un buon caffe!”_ She thanked him, rewarded with a big beaming smile.

“She didn’t want breakfast?” Bond asked with a small smile. “Our lovely contact?”

“It’s a good thing I’m on your side,” a sultry voice sounded from the other side of the paper screen, and a moment later, the beautiful brunette from the picture in M’s briefing appeared. “Too easy to sneak up on you.”

Sansa couldn’t help but admit that the woman was stunning. Besides the features that made her beautiful on paper, long curly dark blonde hair, beautiful pale blue eyes, willowy figure ending in long, shapely legs; there was also her smile, sweet and sensual, the way her eyes flicked over the occupants at the table. She reached behind the screen, hooked her hand around a chair, and pulled it towards the table, seating herself at the end between Bond and Robb, who both looked instantly smitten, to Sansa’s amusement.

The waiter appeared as if summoned, and Margaery ordered coffee and a _panino_ in fluent Italian that rolled off her tongue like honey. Her English, however, was only lightly accented. Sansa felt sure she was not native Italian, although the dossier claimed she was. She was starting to find the dossiers woefully inadequate.

Margaery pulled a cigarette from an elegant holder in her purse, and Bond quickly lit it for her. It was like something from a motion picture, so smooth and picturesque. The waiter returned with coffee and _panino_. Margaery sipped the coffee and took a small bite of the pastry, then took another drag of her cigarette. Sansa realized they were all just staring at the woman. Sansa cleared her throat.

“Introductions?” she asked, looking from Robb to Clegane. But then for a moment she was confused. Did they give their real names or their aliases?

Luckily, Bond spoke up first, introducing himself as Jon Snow. Everyone followed suit, until it was Sansa’s turn.

“Sarah Hawthorne,” she said with a small smile.

Margaery nodded with a sly smile. “Very nice to meet you.” She chugged the last of her coffee, throwing her head back neatly, exposing her long slim neck, then called for the check. Within moments, the slip of paper was laid on the table. Bond reached for it, pulling out his wallet, and laid it back on the table, covered by a few bills.

“Well, shall we retire to a more private setting, so we can get to know each other better?” Margaery asked, after the check had been settled.

Bond nodded. “Yes, let’s. I have a feeling we’re going to become fast friends.”

Margaery pulled a slip of paper from her purse, passed it around the table. “Let’s leave in pairs, staggered every few minutes. Everyone takes a different route. Meet at this address. Knock on the door and give the password.” The paper made its way back to her, and she tucked it back into her purse, then turned to Bond.

“Walk a lady to her sewing circle?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.

“My pleasure. I do enjoy a good needling.”

Sansa lit a cigarette as she watched them leave, turning her glance toward Robb. “What do you think of her?”

He shrugged. “Seems a nice enough bird. Quite beautiful, clearly. Let’s hope Bond can keep his mind on the mission.”

Sansa murmured in agreement. “Hopefully you three are safe?” she said with a smile.

Robb checked his watch, then stood, fastening the button of his suit jacket. He winked at Sansa as he and Greyjoy left. “No promises, sis.”

Sansa chuckled as she finished her cigarette. She turned to Clegane. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Unlike some people, I don’t speak when I have nothing to say.”

“’Some people’ being me?”

“No, I didn’t say that. I was referring to Bond, if you must know.”

Sansa turned to glance at Clegane before putting out her cigarette. “Not a fan?”

He shrugged. “He talks a lot. We’ll see if he’s got what it takes when it’s past the time for talking.”

Sansa nodded. “He’s got what it takes. Hate to admit it, but I’ve been with him since training. He’s a good agent.” She rolled her eyes. “But you’re not wrong. He does talk a lot.”

She glanced at her watch. “Ready?”

Sandor nodded and they stood together, and began making their way to the entrance. They passed their waiter on their way out, who beamed at Sansa and shouted something to her as he quickly made his way with a tray of plates. Sansa didn’t quite catch what he’d said, but she smiled, and wished the little man a good morning.

She turned to Clegane outside. “Did you hear what he said?”

“He said red hair is lucky, and he hopes your luck rubs off on him.”

Sansa pulled her sunglasses out of her purse to cover a momentary flutter in her stomach. When she was safely barricaded behind the dark lenses, she turned to Clegane, hoping she wasn’t blushing. “This way?” she asked, setting off down the street before he had a chance to reply.

_Sandor_

Sandor watched Sansa’s cheeks turn a pretty pink color when he’d told her what the waiter had said, although he hadn’t quite translated fully. A more accurate translation would be, “I hope your luck rubs off on us,” with the small server including Sandor in his gaze with a somewhat suggestive expression. Sansa reached into her bag for her sunglasses, probably hoping to cover up the blush. Sandor watched her as she unfolded the glasses and slid them smoothly over her eyes, letting his own eyes linger over the smooth curve of her cheeks, the slight quiver at the corner of her mouth, like she was barely suppressing a smile.

“This way?” she asked as she began to walk away. Luckily Sandor had long legs, and he caught up with her within minutes. She was headed the wrong way, but Sandor was sure she was aware. The instructions had been to take different routes, and Robb and Theon had headed in the other direction when they left.

By instinct, Sandor fell back a pace as they walked, to keep Sansa in front of him. He checked reflective surfaces as he walked, looking for anyone tailing them. He was fairly certain that no one was following them, no one walking behind them seemed particularly interested in them, just regular people absorbed in their own affairs.

He was watching a man out the corner of his eye across the street, so he was momentarily surprised when Sansa grabbed his hand and pulled him over to a shop window.

“Look at that dress! Wouldn’t that be the perfect thing for the cotillion next month!”

Sandor’s eyes found the man across the street, who didn’t stop for a moment. None of the pedestrians around them showed any interest, the flow of traffic moved smoothly around them until they were standing right up against the glass, out of the path of foot traffic.

Sandor turned to Sansa, who was still clutching his hand. He glanced quickly at the dress, which was undeniably rather striking. Some kind of shiny blue stuff, cut in a plunging neckline, floor length.

“What are you doing?” he asked gruffly.

“Wanted to see if they were following us.” She jutted her chin out at a pair of men that had passed by, tan suits and even tanner skin. “If anybody is following us, they’re very slick. Nobody reacted at all when I grabbed your hand.”

Sandor nodded, facing the window again. “It is a nice dress. You should buy it.”

Sansa scoffed, turned away from the window, dropping his hand in the process. “I can’t afford that. Probably costs a month’s salary. And can you please walk beside me? I feel like a mark when you walk behind me like that.”

Sandor followed, falling into step beside her.

After a few twists and turns, they arrived at the address Margaery had provided. Sandor knocked and gave the password, and they were admitted to a small townhouse by a gruff Italian guard. He pointed up the stairs behind him after securing the door. Another set of stairs led down to the left.

Sandor followed Sansa up the short flight of stairs to a living room with an adjacent kitchenette. Stark, Greyjoy, Bond, and Margaery were already there, drinking orange juice out of tall glasses.

“Welcome! Help yourself to something to drink! I like something light after all that heavy coffee, but there’s a carafe of very nice coffee if you prefer it,” Margaery said from the sofa, clearly unwilling to move from her spot between Stark and Bond. Greyjoy sat in a wicker chair, smoking. Sansa poured herself a glass of juice, offering Sandor one, but he declined, pulling out a cigarette instead.

Once Sandor and Sansa were seated in chairs facing the sofa, Margaery began.

“This is our informal headquarters here in Rome. This is where we’ll meet while we plan how to catch your little mole.”

Sandor glanced down the stairs at the far end of the room to the guard. “Are we ok to speak freely here?”

Margaery noticed his glance. “He doesn’t speak English, and the room is regularly swept for listening devices.”

Sandor nodded. “So what’s our plan?”

Margaery leaned forward and handed Sansa a manila folder. “We’ve tracked down a few of Baelish’s informants here in Italy. I think it’d be perfect for Sarah and Howard to investigate, see if you can squeeze any information out of them.” Margaery let her eyes flick down over Sandor’s broadly muscled chest.

Sansa gave Margaery a pointedly quizzical look, and the other agent went on to explain, “You’d have the drop on them, they’re not expecting you. They all know me here; they don’t know you.”

That was fair, Sandor thought. And he wasn’t opposed to doing his share.

“I’ve got a car for you downstairs, and one other. Can you boys all share?” she asked, her question directed at Greyjoy, Stark, and Bond.

“Well, sharing’s never been my strong point, dear, but I’ll make an exception for you,” Bond said coolly.

“Aren’t you just a proper little English lord,” Margaery simpered. She turned her attention back on Sansa.

“I was thinking of taking you out to a nice little spot tonight, where they all know me and they’re on our side.” She shrugged one slender shoulder. “Just a little club we go to unwind after work. All our people, you know. I think we should all get to know one another, right? Since we’ll be working so closely.”

Sandor saw Sansa smile from the corner of her eye. “That sounds like a great idea. What time?”

“7 PM? Here’s the address.” Margaery passed Sansa a slip of paper. “I know you’re better with written instructions,” Margaery said with a smile, then turned towards Bond and Stark.

“And what shall we find to occupy you boys?” Next to him, Sansa was perusing the contents of the folder, passing him the sheets as she finished reading and committing the information to memory.

There were three targets, Sergei Dontos, Meryn Trant, and Boros Blount. The sheets listed their usual whereabouts. Sandor glanced at his watch. It was only a quarter after ten now, they should have plenty of time to track down at least a few of the contacts before going to meet up at Margaery’s hideaway. After Sansa had read through the entire folder, she shut it and laid it on the coffee table before her, then nodded at him before standing.

“Well, guess we’d better get to work. See you at 7.”

“It’s a bit mod, so dress to match. No suit jackets,” Margaery advised, sipping her orange juice.

“So no guns?” Sandor asked.

“You can bring it, but you’ll have to check it at the door. They’ll sweep you with a metal detector and pat you down before you come in. So no sneaky hiding places!” she wagged her finger in Sansa’s direction.

Sansa herself smiled. “You’ve a good eye.”

Margaery raised a silky brown eyebrow. “You don’t know the half of it! Take the stairs down,” she pointed back to the front door, “and that will lead you to the garage. It exits on the street behind the house. Here’s the keys. Registration’s in the glove box.”

Sansa took the keys Margaery held out to her, and they headed towards the front door.

“You kids be good!” Margaery called after them. “Keep one foot on the floor at all times.”

Sandor could feel the tips of his ears turning red at her insinuation. Why did everyone keep saying things like that? First Moneypenny, then Margaery. Did women just like to make insinuations out of boredom?

The guard nodded at them as they headed down the stairs to a partially subterranean level. Sansa giggled when she saw the cars, and Sandor cringed. They were tiny, and both looked at least ten years old, one red and one yellow. Sansa looked at the keychain, the same yellow as the second car, and tried the key in the door. It unlocked.

“For fuck’s sake, how am I supposed to fit in there?”

Sansa climbed into the driver’s seat, threw her hat in the backseat when it bumped against the roof of the car. She leaned over to unlock the passenger door, then reached beneath the chair, and found the lever that would move the seat back.

“Can you push the seat?” she asked. Together, they moved the seat back as far as it would go, giving him a little more leg room. He sat down, the car dipping worryingly as he did so. Sansa burst into peals of laughter. Sandor’s knees were only about a handspan away from his chest.

“Maybe I should just walk,” he grumbled.

“Does the seat lean back?” she asked, trying to control her giggles.

Sandor looked around. “I don’t know. How do you tell? I never had a car.”

Sansa leaned over, reaching to the far side of the seat, between him and the door, fumbling around for something. Her face dipped very close to his, almost touching his chest, and he could feel her hand on his hip while she searched blindly. Whatever she was looking for she must have found, suddenly the back of the chair dropped back to a nearly reclining position. Sandor hadn’t been prepared for it, and found himself staring at the ceiling. Sansa leaned over him, her hair brushing against his chest.

“Comfy?” she asked, giggling again.

“Might be a little too far back.”

She took his hand and guided him to the little lever. “Pull that and sit up while you do it. You can set the level to your preference.”

Sandor adjusted the chair back as Sansa started the car. He could feel his face getting red as he remembered how close she’d been to him, the feeling of her hair when it had brushed his face for a moment. Luckily, Sansa was too busy maneuvering out of the tiny garage area, out to a gate where another guard sat, nodding at them before opening the door that led to the street.

“Do they drive on the left or the right?” Sansa asked, causing a mild panic in Sandor’s gut.

“Are ye bloody joking?” he sputtered.

“Yes,” she said, turning to him with a smug smile. When the traffic was clear, she turned right, driving in the right-hand lane. She chuckled softly to herself as Sandor ran his hand down his face.

“You trying to kill me?”

Sansa shrugged. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d use my hands.”

Sandor shook his head. The woman was bloody mental, but she was all right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue every tropey excuse I can think of to throw these two alone together. I suspect the other boys are going to be distracted by Margaery for a while.


	8. Playing the Sap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa interrogates the first contact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I've got tons more ideas about more flirty bits, and I might even change the rating to Explicit at some point.
> 
> Hope you like it!

_Sansa_

Sansa ended up needing Clegane’s help to direct her to the first location, as the map she’d viewed previously didn’t have this street on it, that she recalled. They ended up parking on the street, around the corner from a barber shop that the target, Sergei Dontos, frequented. Sansa got out of the car, walked down the block, around the corner, then walked back up the street, looking into the window of the barber shop quickly, before stepping into a boutique next to the barber shop and emerging twenty minutes later with a shopping bag. She walked to the next corner before crossing the street again and returning to the car.

“He’s not in there. Nothing to do but wait. Want to pop over to that cafe? We might stand out if we just sit in the car.”

Clegane nodded, grateful to unfold from the tiny car. He rubbed a crick in his neck, as Sansa retrieved her hat from the back-seat, then following her to a little outdoor café across the street from the barber shop. Clegane ordered an iced tea while Sansa asked for a lemon-flavored Italian ice.

Clegane snickered. “What are you, seven?”

“I happen to like Italian ice, thank you. Besides, it’s warm, and I’m also a grown woman who doesn’t owe you any explanation.”

They sat enjoying their beverages, watching the barbershop without looking like they were. Eventually, Clegane must have decided some small talk was in order, either to pass the time or avoid suspicion from the patrons at the other tables around them.

He cleared his throat, casting a glance at her before looking over her shoulder at the foot traffic. “So, uh, what did you buy at the boutique?”

“Nothing,” Sansa replied quickly, although she could feel a slight flush cover her cheeks. She cursed at herself internally.

Clegane noticed the blush, though he said nothing, just nodding, then changing the subject, lighting a cigarette. “How long have you worked for the family business?”

Code for MI6, probably, since it very much was a family affair for her. Her father had been section head for ten years, before he’d settled down with a family, and her grandfather had been one of the founding members. Besides her brother Robb, she’d had two uncles, her father’s brothers, who had worked as agents, one tragically dying on a mission long before Sansa was born. The other had gone missing for several years before turning up in a black ops site in Turkey. He’d never been the same after that.

“Three years, in training for four before that.”

“They start that young?” Clegane asked gruffly.

“Many younger than that, but my mother wouldn’t allow it. I don’t think she wanted all of us following Dad into the um, family business.”

Clegane shrugged one shoulder. “Understandable.”

“My sister’s already in training. They say she’ll be the best yet.” She lit a cigarette of her own, paused to examine Clegane. “You mind if I ask how old you are?”

“Thirty-three in July. You?”

“Just turned twenty-two.”

Sansa turned to glance at the barbershop, and a sudden breeze ruffled her hair. She turned back to Clegane, pushing locks of hair back out of her face. “So what’s the play when he comes? Follow him in or wait for him to come out?”

“Second option.” Clegane glanced at her hair, then around at the other tables. It had gotten busier and noisier as the morning wore on, so Sansa wasn’t worried about being overheard. She’d barely heard his response to her, and she was sitting right in front of him.

“I don’t think anyone can hear us if we speak softly,” she said, leaning forward, pushing up her sunglasses to prop them on the crown of her head.

Clegane shrugged, eyes darting to the other tables around them. “Hard habit to break,” he explained brusquely.

Sansa nodded, sipping her drink. “I see him, he’s headed down the street from the west.”

Clegane turned his head slightly, caught sight of the portly Russian after a moment.

Sansa sipped at her melted lemonade, chewed on her straw thoughtfully. “You should wait around back in case he tries to slip out that way. I’ll hang around the front and steer him to that side alley.”

Clegane cast a surprised glance in her direction, then grunted. “Guess it’s a good plan. You sure you can manage him though? I thought I would stay out front, in case you needed me.”

Sansa shot him a look, and he backtracked. “Not sayin’ you need my help. I know you can handle yourself.”

She smirked. “Trust me, my way’s better. Less fuss. We can’t just snatch him in full daylight in a public place, after all.”

Clegane stood. “I’ll get in position, then. Wait five minutes, and head over?”

“Do you have a pack of cigarettes?”

Clegane nodded, took it out of the breast pocket of his suit. Sansa opened it up, checked her own, pulled out all off the cigarettes. She laid one on the table in front of her, then slipped all the rest into Clegane’s pack and handed it back to him before putting her empty pack back in her purse. Clegane accepted the full pack back with a quizzical glance, but didn’t stop to ask why. “Be careful,” he grunted, then entered the stream of pedestrian traffic.

Sansa nodded, sipping at her lemonade again. She watched Clegane head down the street, chewing on her straw again. She pushed the glass away as soon as she realized, or next thing she knew she would start chewing her nails again, and she had tried so hard to break herself of that habit. She picked up the cigarette from in front of her instead, tearing her eyes away from Clegane’s retreating form to watch the barber shop. Fortunately, with her talent for monitoring her peripheral vision, she was able to watch the shop and Clegane’s progress at the same time as she lit the cigarette. She inhaled, tilting her head back slightly as she let out the smoke.

To Sansa’s growing surprise, she was finding working with Clegane more and more amiable with the passing hours. After the bad impression he’d made the day before, he’d got back in her good graces by recognizing how unfair her treatment really was at MI6 compared to the men, and he’d gained some idea of her real value and seemed to respect her judgment.

Additionally, there were quirks of his personality that endeared him to Sansa. His silence, for one, which had at first struck her as bravado, putting up a strong front to seem tough. She’d soon realized it wasn’t a front, though, and it’s not like he really needed to look any more tough. As she’d gotten to know him, he’d opened up to her more, and she was starting to wonder if the behemoth was really just shy.

Another tick that amused her was the way his eyes were always roaming over her, respectfully, though, not ogling. He had sharp eyes that were always scanning his surroundings. She recognized the same look from her father and uncles. Her dad had explained it once as an old habit, head on a swivel, gauging distances to exits, evaluating possible threats, weapons, constantly calculating and re-calculating. But in between Sandor’s sweeps of whatever room or street they were occupying, were the little glances he would cast over her, when his eyes would soften just a millimeter as his gaze swept over her hair, skipped up the curve of her face, sometimes settling on her hands instead, or the pale skin at her neck. It was always just a flash of his grey eyes, drinking her in with quick little sips, never leering or over-bearing. Lord knew Sansa was used to being eyed, whether she wanted it or not, usually not. But the soft glance of his eyes on her, that was not something she was used to, and she had to admit to herself that she liked it. It seemed far too tender to be motivated by something sexual.

Sansa caught one more direct glimpse of Clegane before he disappeared behind the barber shop. She let her eyes flick over his form for just a moment, surprised to find herself appreciating the view. It wasn’t just his height, or broad shoulders and powerful arms and legs, though that was certainly appealing, as well. His round behind certainly didn’t hurt. And his strong hands, the way he held the cigarette between middle and index finger, deep between the grooves of his fingers, instead of at the ends, or more commonly, clamped between his lips to keep his hands free. She liked the way he never smiled, except sometimes when she said something very sarcastic or flippant, then just the very corner of his mouth would hitch up a centimeter or two, on the right side of his face where the skin was smooth. It was quick, blink and you’d miss it, but she had found herself looking forward to it.

Sansa shook her head, stood quickly and left the table, joining the flow of foot traffic. She frowned at herself, ignoring the sultry looks she got from some of the other pedestrians. What was wrong with her? Mooning over Mr. Clegane? Not that there was anything wrong with him, of course. And she much preferred him to Bond. But they were going to end up working together closely on this trip, if today was any indication. She couldn’t afford any distractions. Sansa worked the wedding ring off her finger, and slipped it into the zippered compartment of her handbag.

After crossing the street at the next intersection, Sansa wandered back up the street to the barbershop, stopping frequently to window shop, keeping one eye on the front door. She stopped in front of the boutique for a few minutes, where she could also see into the barber’s, and saw Sergei standing at the front. She debated crossing in front of the broad windows and giving him an alluring look to try to draw him out, but she didn’t want to be noticed by too many other people in the store, in case they should try to identify her later. She stayed in front of the boutique, idly braiding her hair and tucking it up under the brim of her hat, looking to the rest of the street like she had just stopped to use the reflective window as a mirror. That was when she saw Sergei step out of the barbershop, fumbling for a moment to light a cigarette.

He appeared to be in his early-forties, shorter than her by a few inches, portly, but with a full head of hair coifed with a healthy dollop of oil and a chin that had just been freshly shaved. As he was lighting his cigarette, Sansa turned from the window, fumbling in her purse for her cigarettes, dropping her sunglasses in the process. Sergei looked up and saw her, though she pretended not to notice him. He bent at her feet to pick up the glasses, taking his time checking out her legs before he stood. He offered the sunglasses back to her just as she had retrieved the cigarette pack and opened it, sighing in dismay to find it empty.

“Miss,” he said with a shy smile. Sansa gave him her most brilliant smile, and accepted the sunglasses.

“Sorry,” she rattled off in her passable Italian, “I’m a mess this morning!” She showed him the empty pack of cigarettes as if to say, Exhibit A. “Could I trouble you for a cigarette?”

He beamed at her and presented a cigarette with a flourish. Sansa smiled and set it between her lips, letting her hand show just the tiniest bit of a tremor in her fingers. Sergei leaned forward to light her cigarette, and Sansa let her hand grasp his, to steady herself, letting her fingers linger on his just a moment too long.

She giggled nervously as she leaned back from him, looked around as though suddenly becoming conscious that they were partly blocking the sidewalk. She turned aside, closer to the alley between the boutique and the barbershop. He followed her without even seeming to think about it.

“Are you all right?” he asked in Italian. Sansa smiled hesitantly.

“I’m just a little flustered, it’s nothing to worry about.”

He looked genuinely concerned, for a moment Sansa found it sweet, until she remembered this guy was one of the scum who worked for Baelish. Who knew what kinds of horrors he was an accomplice to?

“Tell me, sweetling. I can help you.”

Sansa dragged on the cigarette, eyes studying the ground in front of her. She didn’t want to seem too eager. “Please don’t trouble yourself. Besides, I’m sure he’s long gone by now.”

“Who?”

She raised her eyes to him. “This big brute of a man,” she explained in a rush, a few tears in her eyes. She really should have been an actress. “I was just standing here, and he grabbed me-” she let her voice trail off.

“That scoundrel. He went down there?” In a flash, Sergei stomped down the alley, and Sansa followed.

“No, don’t! You could get hurt!” Hopefully, Clegane would hear her, and put two and two together.

“I’m going to rip that bastard apart,” Sergei growled, then turned the corner to find Sandor leaning against the wall, so close Sergei had to scramble not to trip over the taller man. Sergei let his eyes wander, horrified, over Sandor’s long, muscular frame, then turned back to Sansa, who flicked her cigarette away with a small smile as Clegane grabbed the smaller man and pushed him against the wall.

“Why did you lie to me, sweetling?” he asked, and Sansa thought it was almost sweet, the look of genuine hurt on his face.

Sansa shook her head sympathetically. “It’s just business, Sergei. Why don’t you tell us what you know about Petyr Baelish?”

Sergei looked up at Clegane, who was standing off to the side, not touching Sergei, just blocking the man’s exit.

“Don’t worry about him, he’s just here to make sure everyone is polite.”

Sergei turned his hurt expression to Sansa, looking to her just like a little puppy. “I would never hurt you. How could you even think that? I just wanted to help you.”

“And you can help me,” Sansa replied with a sweeter, wider smile. “Tell me about Baelish.”

Sergei cast nervous glances around him.

“Would you prefer to go somewhere more private?” Sansa asked, still in Italian.

The man shuddered, cast a dark glance at Clegane. “No thank you, angel. I’ve no wish to-” and then he said something that Sansa didn’t understand. She glanced back at Clegane.

“He doesn’t want to end up fucking dead,” Clegane helpfully translated.

“Sergei, no! I would never harm you; I know how helpful you want to be.”

“Sweetling, if I tell you what you want to know, I’m as good as dead.”

Sansa sighed, leaning closer to him. “Tell me what you know, then get out of here. Run away and never look back. You’re too kind for this business.”

He sighed. “And so are you.”

Sansa steeled her gaze. “I’m not kind, Sergei. Tell me what we want to know, or we will go somewhere private.”

He squirmed. “May I have a cigarette?”

“After. Tell me about Baelish.”

The little man gave in. “What do you want to know?”

_Sandor_

Sandor stood by as Sansa grilled the little shit. He had to admit, he was impressed. Not that he hadn’t thought she could do it, but actually watching that fat little man follow her down a blind alley, then spill his guts with his eyes full of tears, was the most beautiful thing Sandor had seen in years. She wrung as much from the little man as she could, her eyes never leaving his face, eyes full of kindness and understanding. When he’d spilled his tale of woe, full of extra unnecessary details, and told them everything he knew about Petyr Baelish’s Italian operations, Sansa smiled, a beautiful sight.

“Very good, Sergei. You did very well.” Her hand slipped into her purse, and while the little man was still smiling up at her, her hand came out with a little sap sewn from sturdy leather, and quick as a flash, her hand arced down and struck him in the back of the head with the little device.

Sergei slumped forward, Sandor caught him quickly and leaned him back against the wall, slowly lowering him to the ground. The man wasn’t knocked out, but groggy and disoriented. Sandor slapped his cheek gently. “Sleep it off, big guy.” He turned to Sansa, who grabbed his arm, pulling him further down the alley, away from the barbershop.

“This way,” she said, her hand in the crook of his arm. “We’ll circle back around to get the car. Don’t want to be seen by anyone in the barbershop, if we can help it.”

“Where did you get that little thing?” he asked, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Lady? I’ve had her since I was a kid.” She took in Sandor’s surprised expression. “I didn’t exactly have a normal childhood. I think it was a Christmas present from one of my uncles when I was 13 or 14. Mum didn’t like it, but Dad argued I should be able to protect myself.”

They turned into the street, Sandor’s head swiveling right as Sansa’s turned left, their gazes crossing for a moment, as he was standing on her left. He smirked as they turned and walked up the street, back to where their car was parked.

Once safely in the car, Sansa directed the car back to the headquarters, so they could report back to the others. “Then maybe some lunch?” she suggested.

Sandor watched her as she calmly directed the car back to the safehouse, eyes flicking often back to the rearview mirror to make sure they hadn’t been followed. You’d never have know she had just threatened to kill a man.

Sandor smirked. “Big brute?”

She turned her head to him, flashing him a quick smile. “You heard that, huh?” She signaled and turned into the garage beneath the safe-house, nodding to the guard as he let them in. She parked, then flashed him that smile again. “Good thing you were there to protect me,” she teased, then open the door and swung out of the car.

Sandor sat for a moment until the shiver of arousal had passed. “Fuck me,” he muttered, before opening the car door.


	9. A Spot of Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor has a run-in with a typewriter, which leads him to question his feelings toward Sansa, and her feelings towards him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it’s been a long time! Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Full disclosure, I am not an expert on the 60s. I tried to be careful of my song selections and wardrobe choices, but full disclosure, I’m probably wrong.
> 
> Hope you enjoy anyway. Feel free to leave me a comment if something is particularly egregious, I’m always willing to learn.

_Sansa_

To Sansa’s chagrin, the other agents and Margaery were still sitting in the living room. Clegane rolled his eyes, and went to lean against the wall, while Sansa greeted the other agents. Margaery looked up, laughing. Sansa noticed Bond wasn’t around, just her brother and Greyjoy. She wondered briefly where Bond had got off to.

  
“How was your morning?” Margaery asked, without waiting for an answer. “Snow’s gone out to check on a lead we just heard about. He left about an hour ago, so he probably will be a while returning.”

  
Sansa nodded. “We were successful with the first contact. Is there anywhere I could jot down some notes?”

  
Margaery nodded, standing up, crushing out her cigarette. “It’s upstairs. I’ll show you.”

  
She showed them to a small room on the second floor. It was tiny, windowless and a little stuffy. Margaery switched on a metal fan, and the stuffiness lessened considerably.

  
“I know it’s a little close. But the lack of windows helps mask what we do here. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” She left after showing them where paper and supplies were kept.

  
Sansa sat down in front of a typewriter, at one of the two desks they’d managed to squeeze into the tiny room. She took a sheet of paper and threaded it through the machine, already drafting her report in her head. She typed out the date, hit the return lever to go to the next line, then glanced up at Clegane, still leaning against the door jam.

  
“Well?” she asked expectantly.  
  
He shrugged. “Guess I’ll leave you to it.”

  
“Like fun you will. Take a seat.”

  
Clegane looked chagrined, but followed her instructions. “I don’t know how to type.”

  
“No time like the present,” she commented dryly. She stood and crossed to the other side of the desk, and showed him how to feed the paper in. She located a manual from a nearby shelf, and opened it to an arbitrary page, propping it up against a mail inbox so he could see it.

  
“Type what you see. Use the long skinny one to make spaces in between words. There’s the full stop and comma. Don’t worry about any other punctuation right now. If you make a mistake, keep going. When you get to the end of the row, hit this to go to the next,” she pointed out the return lever.

  
Clegane tried out a few keys, but quickly stopped and stared at the machine. “How the hell do you remember what letter’s where? Why isn’t it in alphabetical order?”

  
Sansa chuckled as she took her seat across from Clegane. “No idea. Just have to get used to it, that’s all.”

  
She began typing her report on the information they had wrung from Dontos. It was slow going for Clegane, and she looked up occasionally to mark the look of frustration and concentration on his face.

  
“Relax. It’s a typewriter, not a boxing match,” she remarked after a particularly forceful hit on the keys.

  
“Rather be in the ring with a prize fighter,” Clegane grumbled.

  
“Here, just use your first fingers, like this. And just kind of hen-peck along. Use your left finger for the keys on the left, right for the right. Don’t hit them so hard.”

  
For ten or fifteen minutes they each kept tapping along. Sansa glanced up at Clegane occasionally, appreciating the look of rapt concentration on his face. Despite his complaints, he applied himself with vigor to his task, and Sansa appreciated the single-mindedness with which he worked. Lots of men would have sneered at the menial work, and think it was beneath them, but not Sandor. Sansa knew his animosity came from struggling with a new skill, not from pure antagonism or snobbery.

  
Sansa had just finished her report when a sharp clang from Clegane’s typewriter caught her attention. She leaned forward to see two of the strikers had got tangled.

  
“You hit two keys at the same time. You don’t want to do that.”

  
They both reached to disentangle the strikers, but withdrew when their hands brushed. Clegane ended up dislodging the entangled metal slightly, not completely freeing the mechanism, but disturbing it enough to cause it to pull back and then shoot forward again in its mechanized quest to stamp the page and return to its starting position. Thwarted in its purpose by the other striker, which was stuck where it oughtn’t to be, it only succeeded in slingshotting a drop of ink onto Sansa’s cheek.

  
Sansa stared at Clegane for a moment, who stared right back, eyebrows hitched slightly, grey eyes pointed at the soiled spot on her left cheek.  
Sansa couldn’t help giggling at the tension, and Clegane’s deer-in-headlights expression. “Did you just-”

  
“I didna do anything!” he protested, and Sansa noticed how much thicker his accent got when he was flustered. Sansa started to straighten, but stopped when Clegane told her to wait, remaining bent over the desk with her weight supported on one hand.

  
He searched around and found a paper tissue, and delicately pressed the paper against her cheek to blot the spot of ink. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean handkerchief. He held it in front of Sansa.

  
“Lick it,” he said in a gravelly voice.

  
“Pardon?” she sputtered.

  
He shrugged. “Prefer if I lick it?”

  
She cocked one eyebrow, but complied, sticking out her tongue and dragging it over the rough cotton fabric. Her eyes flicked up at him as she did, and noticed his eyes honed in on her mouth and tongue, realized she was glad he was looking, that she wanted him to look.  
Clegane applied the damp fabric to her cheek, gently scrubbing with a slight frown on his lips, a little furrow of concentration between his brows. Without seeming to think about it, Clegane raised his left hand and placed it under her chin, angling her face upward and steadying her slightly as he wiped at her cheek again. Sansa felt something flutter in her stomach as she gazed up at Clegane, who was bent over her, his face just a hands-width away from her.  
She felt her gaze flick involuntarily down to his mouth, then found herself blushing, to her horror.  
  
If Clegane noticed, he said nothing. After a moment, he leaned back, returning the handkerchief to his pocket. “Did the best I could. You might still have a little stain for a bit.”

  
Sansa reached down to set the typewriter to rights before straightening, pulling the last piece of paper from her own typewriter. She straightened the papers on the desk, then realized she was fidgeting, forced herself to stop.

“I’m sure it’s fine. I’d better get these to Margaery.” She slipped from the room quickly, one hand fluttering up to rest on her cheek as she descended to the main floor.

_Sandor_

Sandor spent the rest of the day trying to puzzle out what was going on with Sansa. Everything had seemed so comfortable and fairly easy after breakfast and through the early afternoon. Then the typing lesson happened.

  
He’d done his best learning the typewriter. He certainly had a lot of new-found respect for the secretaries back at headquarters. He hadn’t meant to fudge up the machine, and he certainly hadn’t intended to fling ink at her. He’d done everything he could to clean it up, and truly, you could hardly see the mark anymore.

  
She’d run downstairs after, probably to find a mirror and assess how badly he’d marred her. When Sandor descended, he found lunch had already been delivered, a tray of cold cut sandwiches. Stark and Greyjoy had already served themselves and stood out on the back porch enjoying their food. Sandor eyed the curtain that separated the living room from the screened patio, verifying it was pulled close, thus preventing anyone from looking in from the street or another building.

  
Sansa was chatting with Margaery, picking at a sandwich, mostly listening to the other young woman while nodding now and then. The red-head glanced at Sandor, then quickly turned her gaze back to Margaery, as if an in-depth analysis of the local intelligence community gossip was infinitely fascinating.

  
Sandor fixed himself a plate, helping himself to a beer from the fridge. He sat at a little table in the kitchenette, pretending to peruse a local paper as he ate, but really he was revisiting the encounter upstairs, wondering how he could have upset Sansa.

  
Was it when he touched her? He had only meant to keep her still, adjust the angle so he could get at the spot easier without getting too close to her eye. Fuck, was he so repulsive that she had to shirk from him like some kind of monster?  
He felt himself frowning at the newspaper like it had reported something he didn’t want to read, made an almost automatic mental effort to even out his expression. The thought had just occurred to him that she hadn’t shirked from him, not really.

  
He knew what it felt like to repulse someone. When his face had been hacked at, in the months after, in the hospital, it had been a ghastly sight to see. He learned to recognize the expression in the nurses faces, the initial shock that was quickly and professionally stamped out, replaced by a distant smile. Other women were not so skillful in their deceptions. Not that Sandor blamed them; in most cases, it couldn’t be helped. One couldn’t control what one found attractive or repulsive, though some people could stand to learn a little bit more control over their reactions, that was for damned sure. Either way, in all cases the reaction of revulsion was instinctual and immediate.

  
Sansa had not reacted with revulsion at all. She’d lingered for several seconds, when she could have pulled away any moment. And her eyes, there had been no disdain or disgust in her eyes. The way she’d blushed…

  
After lunch, Sansa suggested they surveil a local poolhall their second target was known to frequent. Sandor agreed, though he took the newspaper with him and hid behind it for most of the afternoon, cramped in the tiny car as he was. Sansa spent her time watching, tuning the car’s tiny radio to the four stations it could pick up. Everything was in Italian, and she sang along occasionally, like she’d forgotten he was in the car.

  
“Well, I don’t think he’s going to show,” Sansa finally said, turning off the radio. “We should head back to get ready for Margaery’s get-together.”

  
“You mind if I get out and walk back to the hotel? Feeling a bit cramped.”

  
She looked surprised. “Are you sure? It must be a mile away.”

  
He nodded. “Be good to stretch me legs.” He opened the door and stepped out.

  
“Wait,” Sansa called, and Sandor bent to look back into the car, one hand on the top of the car door, one hand on the roof.

“You are coming to the bar, right? Tonight?”

Sandor appraised the earnest expression on her face. “Of course. I’ll be there.”

“And you’ll dance with me, right?”

Sandor smirked. “Not a chance.” He straightened back up, ignoring her wordless cry of protest as he shut the car door and walked away, pushing his hands into his pockets. He was a few steps away when Sansa started the car and pulled away. He smiled to himself and watched the car pull away. He was pleased that she really seemed to want him there, though it left him feeling more confused than ever by Sansa Stark.

By the time Sandor arrived at the hotel, he was in desperate need of a shower. The day had grown very warm, and even removing his suit jacket and carrying it over his arm had not prevented him from sweating through his shirt. Sandor quickly showered and dressed in a pair of black pants and crisp white shirt. He wavered when it came to his holster and gun. Margaery had warned them that firearms wouldn’t be permitted, but he was reluctant to leave it lying around. He finally decided to hide the gun in the air vent, pushing his bed up against the wall to hide the vent. Not very original, admittedly, but it should at least remain hidden from a cursory search.  
He pulled on his suit jacket before leaving, despite Margaery’s playful admonition. He just didn’t feel right leaving without it, and surely he would have drawn notice, leaving a nice hotel like this without his jacket.

He jumped in a cab and arrived at the address Margaery had given him with five minutes to spare until seven.  
It was a quiet street, surrounded by a few other bars and nightclubs that had a quiet, dignified air. The strains of a jazz tune wafted down to the street from the second floor of the building Margaery had directed them to. On the outside, it looked like the first floor was some kind of dress shop or tailors. The address had said to come to the second floor, which seemed to be accessible by a small door to the right of the main entrance to the first floor.

After paying the driver, Sandor tried the door and found it locked.  
He noticed a buzzer to the right of the door, hit a big black button. After a few moments, a voice crackled through the speaker.

“Hold the button to speak,” a bored male voice replied.

Sandor held the button down. “Margaery sent me? I’m here for the party.”

A buzz sounded and a click came from the door lock. Sandor pulled open the door and took the steps two at a time. He was met by a man on the landing, probably the source of the bored voice, who looked Sandor up and down.

“No jackets,” he muttered, pointing his thumb to a coat rack across from the door to the second floor.

Sandor shed his jacket and hung it up. The door guard gestured vaguely to Sandor’s person. “Got to pat you down now, make sure you don’t have no gun.”

Sandor spread his arms and legs, and the guard felt up his arms, down his torso, and down each leg, ensuring Sandor didn’t have a weapon. Sandor noticed with satisfaction that it was a thorough search; maybe he’d actually be able to relax tonight. The guard nodded and opened the door for him, shutting it firmly behind Sandor.

The door opened on narrow entryway, which led into a large dimly lit room. Lamps stood on coffee tables surrounded by low couches, on which a few dozen people lounged. The room was so dark, it was hard to see faces, unless they were leaning close to the lamps. Sandor saw several people lean back reflexively when he walked into the door, and he felt dozens of pairs of eyes scrutinizing him for a moment. Then the feeling passed, and the tense forms near him relaxed. A bar stood at the far side of the room, with a dance floor between the couches and the bar. Ten or so couples swayed on the floor to an Italian ballad Sandor didn’t recognize. He spotted Stark and Greyjoy at the bar. No sign of Bond or Sansa yet.

He crossed the floor to the bar, which was only slightly better lit than the entrance. He sidled up to the bar next to Stark, who greeted him with a clap on the shoulder. “Heard you had a busy day today,” he remarked while getting the bartender’s attention.

Sandor ordered a whiskey, then turned back to Stark. “Not a bad day, all told.”

Greyjoy stirred his attention from his drink. “That’s right, you cracked that fucker, didn’t you?

“Actually, your sister did it. I just made sure he didn’t get away.”

“Really?” Stark looked surprised.

Sandor shook his head as he took a drink. “Don’t look so surprised. You underestimate her. We all do.”

“We all do what?” he heard her say behind him.

He turned, momentarily captivated by the sight of her. She’d finally donned a pair of trousers, and he had to admit, they suited her. The pair of black trousers fit snugly over her hips and legs, ending just above her ankles. She wore a dark grey sweater, and Sandor had to quickly draw his eyes away, to avoid noticing too much the way it clung to her curves. She’d worn her hair down, though pulled back from her face, and strands curled over her shoulder, down her breast. She looked up at Sandor, her eyes floating over his chest and shoulders, the ghost of a smile curving her lips.

“We all drink,” Greyjoy supplied, waggling his empty glass at the bartender. With that, the moment was over. Sansa turned her gaze away from Sandor, and Sandor turned back to his glass, finding himself capable of breathing again.

“Some more than others,” Sansa remarked as Stark made room for her at the bar. Sandor chuckled into his glass. He looked up to find the flash of Sansa’s gaze, sharing the joke. When the bartender came by, she ordered her usual gin and tonic, and the bartender brought another martini for Greyjoy.  
Sandor watched as Sansa took a sip of her drink, gazed out past the dance floor to the couches. “Want to grab a table? I see an empty one on this side.”

Sandor and the others agreed, carried their drinks through the busy dance floor, occasionally being bumped by slightly intoxicated dancers. Sandor made it to the cluster of three couches, centered around a low table, a small lamp flickering in the center of the table. Sandor picked a couch and sat down, with Stark and Greyjoy on the couch opposite. Sansa chose the couch in the middle, crossing one leg over the other as she took another sip from her glass. Her foot bobbed to the beat. Sandor felt a sudden chill as he remembered Sansa’s request to dance.

Margaery showed up shortly, with Bond in tow. The pair greeted everyone, then went to the bar, returning with a round of drinks for everyone. At Margaery’s urging, Sansa scooted over closer to Sandor, so Margaery could claim the corner between Bond and Stark. The trollop seemed to enjoy playing up both of the men, neither of whom seemed to mind being part of Margaery’s trio. Greyjoy, as always, seemed more interested in getting smashed than in any actual socializing. Sansa soon turned her attention to Sandor.

“So, changed your mind about dancing with me?”

Sandor scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered, just loud enough so she could hear him. The more he protested that he didn’t want to dance, the more he realized it was all he wanted to do. He could imagine what it would be like to hold her in his arms, feel her breath on his face, her body close to his.

“What’s the matter, don’t you know how to dance?” she teased, leaning her head on her hand, her elbow leaning against the arm of the couch.

Sandor took a sip of his drink. “I know how. Just don’t care to dance.”  
Sansa laughed, a sweet, tinkling sound.

“’Don’t care to?’ It’s dancing, not tea. Dancing is a part of you, the rhythm’s in your blood. It’s why we have a heartbeat.”

Sandor smirked. “Didn’t know you were so gung ho.

She smiled, leaning back against the back of the sofa, her foot still bobbing to the beat. “Just love to dance, that’s all.”

She tossed back the rest of her drink. “Well if you won’t dance with me, I’m not about to let the grass grow under my feet.” She turned to the rest of the group, setting her empty drink down on the table. “Who’ll dance with me?”

Stark grabbed Margaery’s hand, and pulled her up from the couch. Bond looked slightly chagrined, but took Sansa’s hand, standing and then pulling her up from the couch. Sansa fixed Sandor a look as she went by, a slightly scolding stare, then she let Bond tow her onto the dance floor, pulling her into his arms, holding her right hand in his left, his right arm around her waist, her left around his neck. Sandor felt an unfamiliar feeling boil up inside him, tore his eyes away as they began to sway to a mambo.

Greyjoy finished his drink, and rose, headed to the bar for another. Sandor stared at the flame dancing in the lamp, letting the turmoil roil inside him. A secret part of him he’d long suppressed whispered a word deep in his belly, but he purposefully ignored it. _Jealousy_ , it hissed.

He stood up abruptly, walked back to the bar to get another drink. He passed close to Sansa as he walked, and it felt like she was a heat source; even though he’d never touched her, he could feel the waves of warmth emitting from her, calling him like a siren’s lure. When the bartender served his drink, one finger of fine quality Scotch whiskey, he threw it back in one gulp, savoring the warmth in his belly.

The song had ended, and he noticed with satisfaction that Bond had abandoned Sansa to pursue Margaery, who seemed to feel it her duty to share her dances around. Sansa returned to the couches, where Greyjoy and Stark had also returned. Sandor ordered another drink from the bartender, and threw it back like the second.

“Where’s the washroom?” he asked the bartender, slipping him a tip as the man indicated the corner opposite the bar, on the near side of the dance floor. Sandor grunted his thanks and headed in the direction.

He walked through an entryway to a short hallway, which lead to entrances to a men’s and a ladies’ room. He took the second door into the men’s room, which was empty. He stood at the sink for a few minutes, staring down his reflection like it owed him money.

He was being ridiculous. Alright, he’d developed a little bit of a crush on the Stark girl. She was pretty, and funny, and smart, as well as incredibly talented and good at her job. It was fine to get a crush, no one was hurt by his admiration of her, it offended no one. But this was worse than that. He didn’t just want to admire her, he wanted her to look at him, at only him. When she looked at someone else, he got the irrational urge to push them off a building. That was not something he had a right to. He had the right to adore her, not to expect her to feel any way about him.

He looked at his face in the mirror, slicked his hair back. He made a decision. He would starve the feelings out, until they had nothing left to feed on. That was the only way to get over this, and continue working with Sansa in a professional manner.

“Professional,” he growled at his reflection, then washed his hands and left. As he closed the door behind him, and turned back to the little hallway, he was startled to see Sansa leaning against the wall outside of the men’s room, in the little hallway set off from the main room.

“Avoiding me?” she drawled, her mouth curving up in a smile.

Voices sounded just outside the entrance to the hallway. Sansa grabbed Sandor’s hand and pulled him into a third door to her right. Sandor found himself in a back corridor, with a broom closet on one side and a storage closet on the other. With the door cracked, they could still hear the music pouring in from the main room.  
  
Sandor found himself standing very close to Sansa, waiting with bated breath as the men moved through the little hallway, and the door to the men’s room shut behind them. Once the hallway was silent once more, the song from the dance floor filled the small space.  
 _I’m comin’ home, baby, now_  
 _That’s what I say- I say I’m comin’ home_

And Sandor felt the rhythm that Sansa had spoken of, the pull in his bones. He liked the song, the tug and pull of the music, the siren call of her skin and her eyes and her smile.

He pulled her close, noting with satisfaction to look of surprise on her face, surprise that quickly shifted to satisfaction. He pulled her closer than Bond had, until there was no space between them. His right hand captured Sansa’s left, held it to his chest. His left hand pressed low on her back, and her right hand curled around his neck, the pads of her fingers pressing into his skin.  
  
He sincerely hoped she wasn’t grading him on his dancing skills. He couldn’t have even said what he did, besides a few steps forwards, then retracing his steps backwards. He had no eyes for anything but Sansa’s big blue eyes staring up at him, no ear for anything but his hammering heart, which seemed to have adopted the rhythms of the Mel Tormé song as it’s own, had no conciousness of any part of his body except the two sections of his skin that were touching her bare skin.  
  
The song soon ended, flowing seamlessly into a doo-wop kind of song that Sandor normally disliked. But this one seemed different, had a light, slow beat to it and a subtle sway that he liked. Sansa did not relinquish her hold on his neck, so he decided it was the nicest song he’d ever heard.

Hello stranger, the female singer’s dulcet tones sang trippingly, _It seems so good to have you back again, how long has it been? Mmm it seems like a mighty long time._

Sandor found himself swaying with Sansa, her fingers starting to burrow into his hair in the most distracting way. She confounded him further by leaning her head against his chest, burrowing her nose into the front of his shirt.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” she murmured, voice slightly muffled by his chest.

“I don’t,” he replied, rougher than he’d meant. He looked down at Sansa, curled up inside his arms, one delicate curl of hair winding a trail down his shirt, red as blood against the white fabric.

He tried again, softer this time. “Just couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing you.”

She raised her head to look at him as the song ended. Her stomach growled just then, long and low, and Sansa laughed.

“Want to get out of here? I’m starving.”

Sandor let Sansa lead him back out of the service corridor, back through the side corridor to the main room. He glanced over at the sofas and noticed Stark seemed to have won Margaery’s affections for the time being, she was curled up in the couch next to him, with Stark’s arm around her waist. Bond was dancing with a pretty blond, and Greyjoy was slumped over, apparently asleep.

They coninued through the main room, out the entrance, where Sandor stopped to retrieve his jacket before continuing down the stairs and to the streeet.  
Sansa let out a giggle as they headed down the street. “Can’t live without your suit jackt, hm?”

“Obviously I can,” he replied, knowing she was just trying nettle him. “Just don’t like to.”

She smiled and they headed down the street. They ended up getting gyros from a street vendor, strips of beef with strong feta cheese, red onion, lettuce, and tomato on a warm pita, drizzled with tatziki sauce. Sandor has been surprised to see the gyro vendor, since it was more of a Greek staple, but supposed that every country must enjoy their neighbors’ fare, to some extent. They ate as they walked, washing the thick bread down with sips of Coke, cold from the bottle.

When Sandor had finished the last bite and drained the last sip of coke, he crumpled up his foil wrapper and threw it and the empty bottle in the nearest trash can they passed, then cast a side long glance at Sansa. He decided it was high time they get some things settled, since it looked like his plan of completely repressing his feelings had died before it ever took its first steps.

“I can’t seem to figure you out,” he observed.  
Sansa looked up at him, eyes slightly wider. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’ve been confused all day by you, all day, yesterday too. Yesterday was my fault, I judged you cause you were a woman, and I hope I’ve learned my lesson know. I hope you know I respect you as a colleague. Today started off better,” he quickly suppressed how their day had really started, and the image of her in the wine-dark negligee. “Good morning, good results, and then that thing with the typewriter happened. I swear on my mother I never meant to flick ink at you.”

She nodded. “I know that.”

“And then you spent the rest of the day like you couldn’t get far enough away from me to satisfy you. You avoided me, you didn’t talk to me, and I wondered all afternoon what I’d done to offend you. You say it’s not the ink, but then I don’t know what it could be!”

He stopped and turned to face her. “And you acted like you wanted me to come out tonight, asked if I’d dance with you, actually did dance with me, which I don’t do. You’ve turned me round in circles. I guess you don’t hate me, that’s something.”

Sansa smiled then, her cheeks growing slightly rosy. “No I don’t hate you. I’m sorry to have confused you, I didn’t mean it. I-“ she stopped for a moment, thinking carefully before speaking, “enjoy your company, truly, and I like working with you. You’re the only one who trusts me to do something besides deliver paperwork! And there’s something between us, isn’t there? Something more than just co-workers?”

“Right, we’re friends. I hope we are, anyway.”

  
Sansa smiled again, a slight chuckle escaping her lips as she turned and began walking again. “Right, friends.”

They were only a few blocks from the hotel. “Why don’t you walk ahead of me, and go into the hotel when we get there? I’ll be sure you get in safe then walk around the block a few times before I follow.”

Sansa shot him a mock-salute. “Aye aye!”

Despite Sandor’s plan, he kept up with her for just a few minutes more. “I had a good time tonight. Thank you for making me dance.”

She smiled, all sarcasm gone from her face and voice. “We should do it again sometime. You’re a good dancer.” Then she hurried ahead, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

Sandor slowed his pace until she was half a block ahead of him, then he followed her until she had reached the hotel. She crossed the street and he watched as she disappeared into the building, up the stairs to her room. 

He thought about what she had said as he took a lap around a four-block area. It was hard to reconcile her words and her actions sometimes, so Sandor reviewed only her actions. People lied all the time, or twisted the truth to save face, but it was harder to conceal your true feelings in your words and deeds.

  
What did he know of her? She was sassy, sarcastic and caustic at times, but he supposed that spoke to her disillusionment with the Intelligence Community, which treated her differently because of her gender. That would be enough to make anyone a little snappish.  
Sandor senses a subtle difference in her general air of disdain at the debriefing yesterday morning, compared to her sarcasm towards him. There was a kernel of good nature that had been totally lacking at the meeting with M and the other agents. It was teasing, he realized. She teased him, friendly banter, not sharp barbs.

  
He remembered the way she’d quipped with him that morning in the car. If he hadn’t know any better, he’d say she’d been flirting with him.

  
And then when he’d tried to clean up the ink spot, the way she’d looked at his mouth and blushed. She hadn’t been repulsed, she’d been-

  
Sandor stopped across the street from the hotel, waiting for the traffic to clear before he could cross. Was it possible Sansa Stark felt the same way about him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Sandor. You think maybe she might have some feelings for you? Maybe? Hmm 🤔 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! My writing mojo may be returning. If so, I will try to update soon! Sorry about any spelling or grammar mistakes, I did not have much time for editing.
> 
> The songs at the end are Coming Home Baby by Mel Torme which is just “chef’s kiss” and “Hello Stranger” by Barbara Lewis. Check them both out if you aren’t familiar, they are some sexy-Ass pieces of music.


	10. Live and Let Dye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor are frustrated by their lack of progress. Margaery and Sansa come up with a method to gather more information, but it may be both dangerous and uncomfortable for both Sandor and Sansa. Sansa undertakes a mini-makeover for her new undercover mission. while Sandor surprises Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, yall. I was in a real pickle with this chapter! I have definite ideas about where this story was going, but not all of the plot is figured out yet, and so I really struggled with this chapter. I finally figured it out though, and next chapter will be some plot. We are definitely not done with fluffiness, though!
> 
> Hope you like it! Let me know where you think the plot is going, if you have any guesses!

_ Sansa _

For the next few days, they fell into a rhythm, both between Sansa and Clegane, and the other agents at the safehouse in Rome. Sansa would wake up fairly early, dress, and meet Robb, Theon, and Bond in Sandor’s room, which had been selected because it was on the very end by the lift. Most guests took the stairs, so it wasn’t a heavily trafficked area. But, if someone was in the hallway, they could pretend to be waiting for the lift.

By the time Sansa dressed and arrived at the room, most of the others had assembled, and room service had brought breakfast. Sansa always arrived later on purpose. It wasn’t that she avoided Clegane after the evening at the spies’ club, but being alone with him in his room was something she tried to prevent. Her feelings about him had deepened in the days after their dance and subsequent conversation, and Sansa still wasn’t sure where they stood.

Sansa had almost come to terms with the fact that Clegane was more or less oblivious to her feelings for him. Sometimes she just wanted to shake him, demand that he tell her how he felt. That night dancing together, she was sure he was attracted to her, and she was still sure of that. She was fairly sure that he liked her as a person. Given the choice, he gravitated to her. If he had to choose a chair next to any of the other agents, he always chose to sit next to her. She knew that he enjoyed her company, platonically. She just couldn’t be sure of anything more.

It was fine, she told herself. Who wanted to start a romance in Italy, while she was supposed to be working? It was an assignment, not vacation, she told herself again. And again.

After breakfast, they all left separately and met up at the safehouse. Then they would get their assignment for the day, usually generic surveillance. Sansa and Clegane spent much of their time in the tiny car, or strolling casually down a street, eyes moving rapidly behind their dark sunglasses, hoping to catch a peek of their target. Most days they went home empty-handed, ate a light dinner, then out again on another tailing assignment, this time to a more “night life” setting.

So Sansa and Clegae got to spend a lot of time together. And after the first day (Day One after the dance), it wasn’t awkward at all, though they both became increasingly frustrated and perplexed at their lack of success.

“Our quarry has run to ground,” Sansa observed one day as they were leaving a bar.

Clegane didn’t say anything as they headed back to the hotel, but Sansa was used to Clegane’s silent spells by then.

When they were about a block away from the bar, Clegane spoke, hesitantly. “There is one place we haven’t looked, well, one kind of place.”

“Where?” Sansa asked, turning to look up at him. She was amused to see his face was flushed. “The titty bars?”

She was rewarded with an incredulous expression, and while he didn’t exactly blush, she noticed the skin on his neck turned red. “The gentlemen’s clubs, yes,” he returned.

Sansa knew she was expected to be dainty and ladylike about the existence of such an establishment, but couldn’t manage to restrain herself. “Mmhmm. And exactly what experience do you have with these, ah, gentlemen's clubs?”

Clegane rolled his eyes, scoffed slightly. “None of your business.”

“Uh huh.” Sansa stopped teasing to consider what he was saying. “You think Baelish has pulled his people from their usual hangouts?”

Clegane nodded. “After they either found our friend Dontos, or because they didn’t find him.”

“You think they did find him?”

“No, I don’t think they did. They would have come after us if they had. We’d at least have seen a tail.”

“We should stake out those gentlemen’s clubs, then. Might not be a bad idea.”

At Sansa’s needling, and under the rationalization that they should swap out vehicles to avoid notice, Margaery procured a dark-panel van, with two-way mirrors in the back, they could see out, but no one else could see into the back. They could park for longer without raising suspicions, the van would appear to be empty when they both sat in the back and drew a dark curtain across the front of the vehicle.

Clegane hmmmed when he saw it, his mouth turned down in a grimace. Sansa smiled to herself and started the engine. “So, where to?”

“Margaery had a few suggestions. Clubs that always seem to do a good bit of business, but never seem to have any patrons use the front door.” He gave Sansa the first address.

“That’s five blocks away from Baelish’s office. Is it a good idea to get so close yet?”

“It’s the most likely place. We won’t even have to get out of the van. We can follow Trant when he leaves, if he’s there. We’ll go unnoticed.”

Sansa frowned, but left the parking garage, three blocks away from the safehouse, and drove towards the club. Clegane climbed into the back halfway there, settled in a small chair bolted to the side. He stretched his legs out in front of him with a small smile that Sansa spotted through the rearview mirror.

The street was fairly deserted when they arrived. The buildings around the club were old, abandoned. Sansa picked an alley a block away, pulled in so that part of the back stuck out, killed the engine. She slipped the keys into her pocket before slipping between the two front seats, sliding the curtain shut. Sansa sat in a chair opposite to Clegane, so they had a full view of the street behind them. Nothing to do but watch for hours.

“That box has your name on it,” Clegane remarked. Sansa’s eyes followed where he pointed to a little black box at her feet, with a small note with her name on the outside, taped to the front. She picked off the paper, read the words scrawled inside.

“Sansa, don’t work too hard! -Margarey” Sansa read to herself, then examined the object. It had a crank on the end and a dial.

“A radio!” she beamed. She turned the crank hard for a while, then started tuning. After a few attempts, she found a scratchy rock’n’roll station, mostly Italian. It had to be cranked up every five or ten minutes, but they at least had something to occupy them.

They took turns watching the club. After a few hours, Sansa groaned. “They’re obviously not coming in through the front. But I didn’t see a back entrance when we approached. I made sure to drive around the back first. How are they getting in there?”

It was apparent to them both that there were people in the club. They could hear the music from where they sat, and the building had a few windows, through which they could not see much, but they did see people from time to time.

“Maybe one of us should move it closer,” Sansa suggested with a frown. They had let the radio die by then, so the van had fallen into silence.

“A few hours ago you didn’t even want to be here, and now you want to try to infiltrate a- a titty bar?” he stammered.

Sansa grinned. She didn’t know why, but something about his awkward delivery was endearing to her. “Trust me, that’s the last thing I want. But we’re running out of time! We’ve been here almost two weeks, and we have no idea when the drop is taking place or who the mole is!”

Clegane nodded. “Aye, you’re right. But being reckless helps nothing.”

Sansa frowned, watching the building. “I disagree. But I guess you’re right. We do have the other locations to check.”

_ Sandor _

Their attempts were just as futile the next night, and the night after. The other bars were fairly ordinary. They staked out the back entrances, since the front doors were scarcely used, but they never saw anyone of interest. Sansa became more and more frustrated at their lack of results.

“Maybe the undercover idea isn’t a bad one,” Sandor said one morning over breakfast. “I could go in as a guard.”

“I doubt it,” Stark told him, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “Margaery’s collected some information about them. She said their hiring practices for guards are incredibly strict. They only hire men who have high-level connections to Baelish’s organization. At least two men have to personally vouch for them. Even then, they work on probation for the first six months. Followed everywhere they go, never left alone in the club. We don’t have time to set up the necessary contacts.”

Sansa was unusually quiet as the others finished breakfast. She didn’t eat that morning, as they couldn’t all eat in the room every morning. Surely someone would notice if he ordered breakfast for five to a room where only one guest was registered every morning. He ordered enough for two and a full carafe of strong espresso, on the rationale that he was a pretty big guy. They either all ate a few bites, or three people would share the food, and the other two would grab something to eat later. Greyjoy and Sansa usually ended up not eating, or not eating much.

Sandor noticed Sansa appeared to be deep in thought as the other agents started to leave, one by one. She had a newspaper in front of her, but Sandor had noticed that she didn’t really seem to be reading it. She hadn’t flipped pages in a while, and she just stared at one section of the page.

Greyjoy left first, followed by Bond. Stark seemed to also notice her distraction. “Bee in your bonnet, little bird?”

Sandor smirked at the nickname, knowledge of which seemed to have spread throughout the group, despite Sandor having told no one about it. Sandor wondered if Sansa had told her brother.

Sansa folded her newspaper, giving up the illusion of still reading. “Just wondering how much attention they pay to the other staff that work there.”

Stark sipped his coffee. “I’m not following.”

“There are more employees in a club besides guards.”

Stark stared at Sansa. “You’re not talking about the- entertainment, are you?”

Sansa shrugged. “There’s also waitresses, bartenders, busboys. And yes, the dancers. There’s got to be a way to get in that club.”

Stark looked thoughtful. “Margaery didn’t say. You’d be willing to go undercover? You may not have backup inside.”

Sandor studied Sansa. He recognized, with surprising fondness, the look of confident nonchalance that he had come to know so well. “I can do it,” she said simply, evenly.

Something close to pride swelled up inside him, at the skill and assurance of his partner. Just as quickly, a wave of pure terror washed over him. What the hell was she getting herself into?

Margaery was not thrilled with the idea of Sansa going in undercover, but she gave it due consideration. “It’s not a bad idea. They don’t pay nearly as much attention to the women who work there. However, that’s both a blessing and a curse. These men, I hope you understand just how crass and oafish they are.”

“I can take care of myself,” Sansa assured her, though less haughty than before.

Margaery did not look convinced, but assured Sansa she would do her best to try to get her hired as a waitress.

“They wear lingerie and my contacts tell me they are often harassed, so be prepared.” A pause. “What are you planning to do about your hair?”

“My hair?” Sansa replied. Sandor became suddenly aware that the room had gone quiet, and both ladies had turned to him. He was alone in the room, the other men had all seemed to back quietly out of the room.

“I should go- check on- something,” he mumbled and left the room. He heard Margaery begin to speak rapidly as soon as he left, about hair dyes and styling that he was sure they didn’t want him to hear.

He left the safehouse by the side door he and Sansa used, and started walking. He let his feet lead him, until he found himself outside a shop, admiring a floor-length dress with a plunging neckline, blue shiny stuff that sparkled.

_ Sansa _

She shocked everyone that evening when everyone returned to the safe house for dinner. Margaery grinned as she stirred the spaghetti puttanesca, tossing the pasta so it was evenly coated in the sauce. Robb poured wine as Theon and Bond sat at the table, Theon looking bored as ever, Bond openly staring at Sansa’s hair.

Clegane arrived, and stopped short at the entrance to the little kitchenette. “What the hell happened to your hair?”

Sansa bristled slightly. The dark brown was not at all her color, but it didn’t mean she appreciated having it pointed out to her. “It’s for the job, we decided the red was too noticeable. I’m trying to blend in.”

Clegane continued to scrutinize her as he accepted a glass of wine from Robb. Sansa tried to ignore him, instead thrusting a stack of plates in his hand. “Set the table,” she ordered, trying to keep her voice even.

She knew the color was a bit of a shock. She too had stared at herself for quite a while in the mirror, and still found herself struck by her reflection on shiny surfaces, the smattering of brown instead of red. Margaery had helped her apply it that afternoon. She’d assured the younger woman that it was only a temporary dye, that she’d used it herself before. “Washes out in a week or so,” the honey blonde told Sansa as she observed the effect.

Sansa didn’t think it looked completely awful, though. Mostly she just looked a little pale, the splash of freckles across her nose slightly more pronounced. She’d never noticed how complementary they were to her red hair. Those could be covered up with makeup, though. She liked the way her hair accentuated the blueness of her eyes. The red hair had competed with the blue of her eyes, whereas the brown was like a lovely backdrop against which her blue eyes dazzled.

So she had thought. But now Clegane was looking at her like he’d never met her, like she was an unknown and possibly untrustworthy stranger.

Sansa shrugged it off and sat down to dinner. The puttanesca was lovely, though Margaery told them not to get used to her cooking.

“Sarah, you’ll have to go see a friend of mine tomorrow. About getting into the club. He’s a rival to Baelish, but he owes me a favor. He’s going to act as a referral for you to Baelish.”

“Why would Baelish trust a recommendation from his rival?” Clegane asked, sopping up some of the leftover sauce on his plate with a slice of bread.

“First, because Baelish doesn’t know he’s a rival yet. The Stag is a business associate of Baelish’s. I’m helping him to build his empire, maybe someday overthrow Baelish in criminal dealings.”

“Why would you do that?” Sansa asked.

“The Stag?” Robb asked, and Sansa smirked.

“Just a little nickname. And he might be a criminal, but he had a code. And Baelish is looking to use his ‘business dealings’ to go legitimate. He wants to get into politics, and God knows what a man like that would do with legitimate power. With the Stag, at least we know what we’re getting, and he sees the benefits of working with the authorities. Also, he may be able to get Clegane in as a bartender. I hope you know a little bit of bartending.”

Clegane grunted. “I know enough to get in trouble.”

“Excuse me, why him? I’m her-” Robb paused, wrestling against giving away their family connection.

“Close?” Margaery suggested. “I know, but his Italian’s better than yours. No offense, darling, but your accent could use some work.”

“When do we need to meet him?” Sansa asked, standing up and taking her plate to the sink.

“Just leave it, Snow here can do the dishes this time.” Margaery said with a wicked grin. “And you’ll meet him tomorrow morning. Be ready to work your first shift tomorrow night.”

Sansa made for the side entrance. A few steps away from the side alley, Clegane caught up with her.

“Did you and Margaery get everything settled? For tomorrow,” he added, when she didn’t answer.

“What do you mean?”

“Well the hair, obviously that’s finished- and the clothes…” He trailed off. Sansa didn’t know if she’d ever seen him so awkward and nervous.

“Yes, more or less.” They were silent for a few minutes. Sansa kept waiting for him to continue, but he remained quiet.

“Why are you asking?” she finally asked.

“Ah,” he made a guttural, dismissive noise. “This is awkward. I know you’re going to have to wear skimpy clothing. I want you to know I respect you as my partner. And I’m going to have your back in there. And I know some of the guys would make you feel odd about having to wear those clothes to do the job, but I wouldn’t do that. If you ever need anything, tell me, and I’ll do it. And I think your hair looks nice, but it looked better before.”

Sansa turned her face up to him to look at him. He shrugged his shoulders quickly. “Anyway, I have to go- I have to go.” And he turned on his heel and walked back the other way.

Sansa thought of his weird speech as she walked back to the hotel. She couldn’t help but smile at his awkward earnestness. Sandor never failed to surprise her. She had to smile as she headed into the hotel, though she was stopped short by a man at the front desk calling her fake name.

“Mrs. Hawthorne?”

She turned and took the paper-wrapped box the front desk attendant held out to her. “This arrived for you this evening.”

“ _ Grazie _ .”

She examined the box carefully as she walked up to her room, not sure what to make of it. It was tied up with a bit of twine, but had no marks on it other than her name and room number above the hotel address.

In her room, she slit open the twine and pulled off the paper. There was the name of a boutique on the outside, and Sansa realized it was the one she passed on the way to the safehouse. She flipped open the lid.

It was the dress she had admired that first morning. She lifted the dress out of the box by its thin straps. A card fluttered to the floor, a quick note from the saleslady letting her know she could bring it back if it didn’t fit, and that they also did alterations, but nothing about who had sent it. She smiled to herself as she hung it in her closet. He must have known he wouldn’t need to leave a card.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I know I've been a little inconsistent with the names. It was supposed to be, Sansa refers to Robb and Theon by their first names because she has known them a long time. Bond and Clegane she calls by their last names, because she's only had work relationships with them. Clegane refers to everyone except for Sansa as their last names, both because that's just kind of a sexism thing for the time, and then also because there are two Starks. I think I got confused and started calling him Greyjoy for Sansa's POV as well. Thanks for understanding, and I hope it wasn't too distracting!


	11. Between a Rock and a Hard Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor meet the Stag, and must engage in a dangerous mission, which is not without its opportunities to pursue their flirtation. Sansa makes a difficult choice, and the team may be in peril.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello... I am back after a little hiatus. Hope you like this new chapter. I have some plot troubles smoothed out, so it should be fairly smooth sailing from here.
> 
> Just want to warn everyone, there will be a death in this chapter. If you would like to avoid reading about this, skip ahead when you read: "He's seen our faces" and you can start again at "Soon they were back at the safehouse". Please remember there is also a warning for this entire fic for guns. If that's something that you would find upsetting, please be aware that will start to be more prevalent as we proceed, actually using guns instead of just hiding them in Sansa's cleavage, lol.
> 
> That said, please enjoy!

_Sansa_

Sansa woke the next morning to the ringing of the telephone. She answered with a sleepy “ _Pronto.”_

“Meet me at the cafe in fifteen minutes,” Clegane announced gruffly with no preamble. The line went dead.

Sansa chuckled dryly to herself, replacing the receiver back on the base. She stretched briefly, then rose and bathed quickly, with her hair up in a shower cap to avoid fading the dye. She stood in front of her meager closet. What do you wear for a meeting with an Italian crime boss? She eventually settled on a white blouse and a black pencil skirt, as well as a pair of black stilettos. She hated the stabby shoes, and knew she would be vulnerable in a fight, but knew from experience that she could weaponize her femininity, especially when men assumed it was her weakness.

She stood a moment in front of the mirror. She couldn’t help staring at herself, at the long waves of dark brown hair that had rendered her own reflection unrecognizable. She had to admit, it did look good on her, but couldn’t help missing her natural red. She swiped on some red lipstick, slung a small handbag over her shoulder, and left the hotel.

It was a beautiful morning, as usual. The sun was warm, despite the early hour, and Sansa found herself gazing at the beautiful light. The sun was just rising over the buildings, a few sideways beams of light cutting across the mostly empty sidewalk, and the sky was a pale blue, like someone had washed and wrung out the sky and left it to dry. Sansa almost liked it better than the typical over-saturated cobalt she saw most days. It felt wistful somehow.

Sansa entered the cafe, empty except for Clegane sitting at the very back. She ordered her usual, a latte and a biscotti, then went to sit across from him. He had an empty plate and cup of espresso in front of him, reading the newspaper as usual. Sansa grabbed the sports section and they sat in silence while Sansa waited for her breakfast. When the steaming pastry and coffee were placed in front of Sansa by a polite, but disinterested server who immediately headed to the back rooms of the cafe, Sansa lowered her newspaper and addressed Clegane.

“Why are we meeting here? Why aren’t you at the hotel?” She dipped her biscotti into the creamy latte and took a bite, savoring the sweet, cinnamony flavor.

“I was researching the Stag, setting up our meeting today.”

“And what did you find out about the Stag? Besides the fact that it’s a ridiculous name.”

“Maybe he didn’t pick it, Little Bird.”

“Now I’m going to start calling you Hound.”

He seemed amused and a little perplexed by her pronouncement. “Why?”

“The Elvis song, you know?” She mimicked the signature hip swivel. “Ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog?”

“I know who he is. Why do you call me a hound?”

“ ‘A hound will kill for you, but he’ll never lie to you.’”

“What’s that?”

Sansa shrugged. “Something my nan used to say. So, when are we meeting the Stag?”

Clegane checked his watch. “Five minutes or so.”

“Are we meeting him here?”

“No, his people will pick us up here and take us to him. Someone called Davos.”

“What do you know about him? Stannis, I mean.”

Clegane shrugged. “Pretty much just what Margaery told us. On the surface, he appears to be an upstanding businessman with a number of successful holdings: real estate, warehouses, even a few upscale clubs and restaurants.”

“And beneath the surface?”

Clegane smiled grimly. “Somewhat more nefarious dealings.”

At that moment, a black car pulled up outside the cafe. Sansa saw Clegane’s eyes flick past her, and she turned to look. A man in a suit got out of the back, walked into the cafe. The server did not emerge from the back, however, and the man approached, stopping a few feet away.

“He’s ready to see you,” the man told them in crisp Italian.

Clegane stood and Sansa followed suit. “He’s early,” Clegane observed.

“He runs a tight schedule, can’t abide tardiness. Let’s go.”

Davos motioned to them to exit the cafe, and he followed them. “Once we’re in the car, I’ll need you to turn over your weapons.”

 _Easier said than done,_ Sansa thought worriedly. Davos gestured to Clegane to take the front seat, seating himself in the back next to Sansa. True to his word, once the door was shut and the vehicle was moving, the man leaned forward and tapped Clegane on the shoulder. Sandor reached under his suit jacket and pulled his gun from its holster and handed it over. Davos then looked at Sansa appraisingly.

“Do you mind looking away?” she asked.

“So you can pull the gun on me? I think not.”

Sansa shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

She slid down in her seat, and kicked both feet up on the top of Sandor’s seat. His head turned towards her for just a second, then he stared determinedly out the front window. Sanda scooted her skirt up to the top of her thighs, then freed the small pistol from the holster strapped to her right thigh. She noticed with satisfaction the flush on the other man’s face.

“I have a knife in my bra, you need that too?” she asked sweetly as she handed over the gun and rearranged her skirt.

“Um… hmmm… I don’t think that will be necessary.”

Sansa smiled and bumped his arm with her elbow. “I’m kidding, I don’t have a knife.”

He cracked a sideways smile. “I’m starting to wonder if you’d even need it.”

_Sandor_

Sandor tried to communicate with Sansa through the rear-view mirror with stern glances. The girl was being flippant and overly chatty. Perhaps he should have warned her before they left. He wouldn’t have thought she’d needed a vipers’ nest pointed out to her, especially when she was about to put her hand inside.

“Aren’t you going to blindfold us or something?”

Davos,smiled. “Not necessary. It’s not all underground and dark shadowy alleys. 90% of Stannis’s business is perfectly legitimate.”

They pulled up to a modest, three-story office building. True to Davos’s word, the building looked perfectly normal. Davos opened the door for Sandor, while the driver opened Sansa’s. The driver, a big man almost as tall and broad as Sandor, nodded to Davos, then climbed back into the car as Davos gestured to Sansa and Sandor to lead the way up the steps to the entrance.

Inside, a guard as built as the driver sat at a front desk.. He nodded to Davos and watched them as they crossed to the lift. Their escort entered a key in the control panel, and hit the button for the third floor. They rode up in silence.

The doors opened onto a large room that looked rather more like a library than an office. Tall, dark wood bookcases lined the walls, which were painted dark black with gold accents. The effect should have been claustrophobic, but mirrors and reflective glass tables, as well as numerous lamps and a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, helped to brighten the room. The effect was dazzling, and it took a few moments to notice the wide desk sitting in front of the windows, and the man sitting at the desk. Sandor thought that was probably the intended effect

The man watched them with cold, calculating eyes. Their escort left them to approach the desk, but Sandor motioned to Sansa to wait by the lift. Davos leaned towards the Stag, who was still seated behind the desk, and they spoke together in low tones. Sansa took the opportunity to look about the room.

After a moment, Stannis motioned them forwards.

“Davos tells me you’re funny and you’re quiet,” the Stag told them with a voice that was surprisingly warm, directing his cool gaze towards first Sansa, then Sandor. “Please, sit down.”

Sandor glanced at the other man, who looked amused that Stannis had told them what he’d said. Davos took his place behind Stannis, and Sandor could tell this Davos was much more than a guard or errand man. More of a counselor, or trusted advisor.

“And your names?”

“He didn’t tell you our names?” Sansa asked, and Sandor bristled.

Stannis did not smile. “He told me some names, yes.”

“I’m Sarah,” she replied. “This is Howard.”

Stannis finally cracked a small smile. “You should really get better cover names. He doesn’t strike me as a Howard at all, Little Bird.”

Sansa covered her surprise fairly well, her eyes just growing a little wider. Afterall, he could have gotten a report from the barista at the cafe. “Sometimes we don’t get to pick our names,” she parroted Sandor’s line from breakfast.

Sandor started to speak, but Stannis held up one hand to stop him.

“No, I don’t suppose we do, Sansa.”

Once again, her face stayed flat, impassive. “Sansa? That’s a pretty name, but who’s she?”

“‘Who’s she’, indeed?” Stannis scoffed, then threw a copy of her passport, her real one, down on the desk. Sandor glanced at it, and saw her picture, that of a young, pretty red-head with a big smile and 20 watt optimism Sandor couldn’t help but admire.

She pretended to scrutinize the picture. “There’s a resemblance, I’ll grant you, but the hair is completely different. And I’m far prettier than her.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Stannis bellowed, slamming a fist down on his desk. Sandor was proud to note that she didn’t jump, but she did flinch slightly. “For the last time, who are you?”

“No, you’re right, this isn’t a joke. This has gone far enough. I’m Sarah Hawthorne, I’m definitely not this Sansa person.”

Stannis waved wearily. “Fine, fine. You did well enough.”

Stannis picked up the picture and slid it into a manilla envelope, dropped it into a drawer of his desk. “I do hope you know how imperative it is that Baelish never find out I had anything to do with this. I am staking you and Howard here, at great personal risk, because I owe Margaery a lot. If Baelish finds out-”

“I would think I’d have more to lose than you, sir. Respectfully,” she added, after Stannis turned a particularly fearsome glare upon her.

“Well,” he replied with mock levity, “know this, Miss Hawthorne. If Baelish does find out, you won’t have to worry about what his men will do to you. Am I understood?”

Sansa nodded, face serious as stone. Maybe she was finally understanding what was at stake.

“She won’t break, sir. She’s tougher than she looks,” Sandor finally spoke up, to be rewarded with a glare of his own.

“Thank you, Howard. Your assurances are invaluable,” Stannis replied with dripping sarcasm. At least the Stag had somewhere new to direct his anger.

“You, Howard, are to report to this address at 1600. A driver will pick you up, drop you off a block away from the club’s service entrance. Follow instructions, keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. Your Italian’s quite good, so you should blend in. I understand you’ve tended bar before?”

Sandor nodded. “Well, then, do your job and keep your head down,” Stannis concluded before turning back to Sansa.

“Margaery will see to you. You will, unfortunately, get a little more scrutiny than the oaf over here. She’ll tell you what to do. If you value your life, do exactly what she tells you.”

Stannis folded his hands and scrutinized Sansa across the desk. “Is that quite clear? Miss Hawthorne.”

She smiled grimly. “Quite clear.”

“Excellent.” He opened a ledger on the desk, removed a thin pair of spectacles and settled them on his nose. “Please see our guests out, Davos.”

Davos moved forward and motioned them to the lift, whose doors had already opened by the time they reached them. Davos smiled as the doors shut. “I wouldn’t feel too bad, Miss. He’s a hard man, but it’s nothing personal. You actually did very well.”

Sansa smiled weakly. “If he’s the nice one, I can’t wait to meet Baelish.”

Davos smiled reassuringly as he handed back their guns. “For his sake, I hope you never do.”

Sansa was quiet on the car ride back. The car left them back at the cafe, and they began automatically to walk towards the safe house. After a block, Sandor realized Sansa was unnaturally, uncharacteristically quiet. He realized with terror that he should say something. It was another block before he worked up the nerve.

“You shouldn’t-”

“For fuck’s sake, Clegane, I know that!” Sansa retorted, and Sandor knew she really was upset, to use his real name in the middle of a public place. Luckily, they had their section of sidewalk to themselves, and Sansa quickly corrected herself.

“Fuck, I know. All right? I don’t need your criticism too.”

Sandor held up a hand, half surrender and half a plea to get her to slow down. “Would you stop? That’s not what I was trying to say.”

Sansa finally stopped walking. They stood halfway in a little alleyway, in front of a small garden and fountain. The sound of the tinkling water covered their low voices.

“How the hell can you walk so fast in those things?”

Sansa finally cracked a smile, but it was stiff, sardonic, and disappeared quickly. “Practice,” she replied sarcastically.

“What I was going to say, was you know you shouldn’t have spoken up like that. But you really did well. You really are a good liar. You just like to joke when you should be serious.” Sansa rolled her eyes and Sandor continued quickly. “And Stannis is a man who will jump on the tiniest weakness. Trust me, it’s instinct with him. He’s also particularly keyed up right now, would be my guess. It can’t be comfortable for him to owe someone a favor. Lord knows what Margaery did for him.”

Sansa snorted, kicked at a clod of dirt with her shoe. “I guess I’m just getting a little nervous about tonight. What if I fuck up?”

“You won’t. Come on, you think I’d trust my life to just anyone?”

She sighed, shrugged her shoulders. “Suppose not.”

Sandor looked around quickly, making sure they were still alone, then leaned in closer to Sansa. “You know you can call me Sandor, right?”

A flush came over Sansa’s cheeks. “Course. Come on.”

_Sansa_

Clegane, no, Sandor, left early to start his one-night stint as a bartender. Sansa caught sight of him before he left the safehouse, wearing a white button-down shirt, black tie and a vest. His beard was trimmed and his hair slicked back. He nodded reassuringly at Sansa when he spotted her looking at him, and Sansa felt a little knot of tension dissolve from her stomach, at the thought that Sandor would be there behind the bar. All she had to do was not fuck it up.

“You’re not going to fuck it up,” Margaery reassured her, drawing eyeliner onto Sansa’s lid while Sansa held as still as she could, eyes closed. “Let me teach you about a persona I put on when I’m going to be around men like this.”

Margaery finished the eyeliner, and instructed Sansa to open her eyes. Then Margaery perched on the edge of the bathroom counter, and put an innocent, wide-eyed expression on her face, not overly sexy, just pretty and simple and sweet, mouth slightly open, batting her eyes slowly and softly.

“You’re not stupid. But it’s like you don’t know anything,” Margaery instructed as she applied a few coats of mascara to Sansa’s lashes. She swept a few strokes of blush on the apples of Sansa’s cheeks, then handed her the lipstick to apply.

“You want to be a blank canvas. Do that, and they’ll project all of their needs onto you. When you’re beautiful and silent, you become whatever they want. A virgin, a tease, a provocateur, a mother, whatever they’re into. And it requires absolutely no insight or artifice on your part. Men really are that easy, trust me.”

Sansa gazed at herself in the mirror as she applied the lipstick. Her makeup had been applied with a heavy hand, but perhaps that would help her to adopt this other persona. Her eyeliner was dark, and accentuating her blue eyes, as did the thick waves of dark brown hair. She had already changed into her “uniform”, a dark blue negligee, trimmed at breast and hem with a thick band of lace. Beneath the slip, she wore a clever bra that pushed her breasts together and up, creating a deep crevice of decolletage Sansa had never possessed before. A pair of skimpy lace-trimmed panties, satin garter belt, and black thigh-high stockings completed the outfit, along with the black stiletto heels. Sansa pulled on a tan overcoat, which she would wear to the club.

“You can’t take a weapon with you, but your sap will be all right in your pocket. If they catch you with it, they’ll probably think it’s adorable,” Margaery explained as she drove Sansa to the pickup. “Gloves, for when you handle the trackers, so you don’t leave fingerprints. Here’s a list of the staff at the previous club you worked at, the Red Heart. They might ask you the name of the manager or something to trip you up.”

Margaery pulled over by the side of a deserted street, checked her watch. “That abandoned store is the pick-up spot. They’ll be by in about ten minutes or so. You’ll be fine. Just remember, your name is Alayne, you’re nineteen years old. And you know nothing, got it?”

“Doesn’t sound too hard to remember,” Sansa replied numbly.

“If someone gets handsy, try not to let it get to you. But if you think you’re in danger, take his little finger and twist it back behind his hand. He’ll cut it out, and that’ll give Hunk time to get to you.”

Sansa whirled around at the nickname. “Who?”

Margaery winked. “You know who. Better get going.”

Sansa climbed out of the car, one hand reaching up to smooth down her hair, the other reaching for the neck of her coat, to make sure it was still shut. The care pulled away behind her, and Sansa walked the last few blocks to join a few other girls, smoking and chatting lightly. One of them offered Sansa a puff, which she accepted gratefully, and just like that, she was part of the pack.

_Sandor_

Sandor dunked a pair of pint glasses into a sink of sudsy water, then into a sink of clear rinse water, then put the glasses face down in a rack to dry. The evening had been pretty quiet. Not only was there no sight of this Trant or Blount guy, it just wasn’t even a particularly interesting night. Reminding himself that spy work wasn’t always running and shooting at things, Sandor took another written order from one of the servers. It had been difficult, at first, to ignore the scantily clad, giggling girls, but he soon found it much more difficult to decipher their handwriting.

Two martinis and a chardonnay. Sandor poured the wine first, then poured a double serving of vodka, vermouth, and ice into a pitcher. He stirred it with the swizel, then poured the mixture into chilled glasses. As he placed the drinks on the tray for the server, he finally noticed Sansa.

She was standing at a table across the room, smiling and laughing as she wrote down an order. One of the occupants at the table reached out to her, but she shied away at the last second, then headed toward the bar, her smile instantly vanishing. She saw Sandor looking at her and smiled just a fraction, nodding her head toward a table to her left. She scribbled something on the order sheet, then passed it to him, checking to make sure no one was watching.

“Amaretto sour, vodka tonic, whiskey neat. Short fat one.”

Sandor nodded slightly, crumpling up the order as he prepared the drinks. He had to force himself to focus on the drinks he was preparing rather than her pert cleavage, the soft silkiness of the negligee, had to stop himself from wondering how soft it would feel. He was glad the bar blocked the lower half of her body, but he still found himself distracted by the thought of her long legs, and those stockings.

He finished the drink order and went onto the next without another glance. Sansa would do all the work from here. He had left the tracking fobs, tiny things because they had to be small in order to smuggle them in. That also severely limited their range, meaning Margaery and her team would have to be within thirty yards to be able to pick up the signal, but that should be enough, since they were camped out in the building across the street. Once they picked up the signal from the bugs that Sansa would plant in the targets’ pockets next time she went to their table, then Margaery just had to follow the signal to locate the secret entrance. Then wait to ambush the targets, and Italian Intelligence would take over interrogations after that. He could finally relax.

Just then, three girls all approached the bar at once, and started arguing in low tones over who got their first. Sandor sighed and rolled his eyes. Not yet.

_Sansa_

The shift was finally over, and nothing worse than a little pinching had befallen Sansa. No one seemed to care much what they did at the end of the night. They were shown to the staff entrance, which Sansa had noticed was different from the one that the clients used. She’d successfully planted the tracking devices on the two men, Trant and Blount, making sure to activate them first. The batteries should last for a few hours, giving Margaery’s team all the time they needed to find the entrance that the clients used to enter the Mockingbird. Dumb name for a club, Sansa thought, leaving through an adjoining warehouse.

She said goodbye to the other girls, nice enough, quick to give her pointers or help her out if she got swamped. Sansa memorized their faces as she left. If she had a chance in the future to do a good deed for them, she would. They were innocent in all of this.

Some of the girls had cars waiting for them, a few began to walk home. Sansa asked if they were ok to walk, but they just laughed and shrugged their shoulders. Sansa felt a pang, a desire to go after them, but she had her own work to do. She turned up the collar of her trench coat and walked on.

A few blocks away, a man hissed at her from a shadowy alley. She stopped, startled, hand around the sap in her pocket, then relaxed when she recognized Sandor.

“Oh, it’s you. You gave me a fright.”

“Sorry. Thought it would be better than jumping out at you.” He stepped out of the shadows and seemed to scan her face.

“Well, that went better than I expected. Didn’t get us killed and didn’t get pinched too much,” Sansa said glibly as they began to walk again.

She could see Sandor examine her out of the corner of his eye. “Fucking pigs,” he muttered.

“Changing the subject, you looked like you could have made out very well.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sansa eyed him, the tie loosened a little now, shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, displaying massive forearms, lightly veined and covered in long, dark hair. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t notice those girls flirting with you.”

Sandor shrugged. “I didn’t. Too distracted by you- I mean, worried about you,” he quickly spit out.

Sansa could feel her face flushing, and mentally cursed herself for getting excited. Wasn’t this always Sandor’s way? A tiny slip, the bare mention that he might have more than platonic feelings for her, then like a startled rabbit, in a moment he’d bolt back into his stoicism, and it’d be ages before he dropped another hint. Why did she let it get her so worked up?

She realized Sandor was frowning now, glancing over his shoulder. He looked worried “What is it?”

“Pretty sure we have a tail,” he muttered as quietly as he could.

On the empty street, at midnight, it would be next to impossible to lose a tail without drawing attention. Sansa cursed under her breath. “Do we run for it?”

“No, that’ll just draw his attention,” Sandor reasoned.

Sansa saw the merit to this argument, then did the first thing that popped into her head. She grabbed Sandor’s hand and pulled him into a nearby alley. “Kiss me,” she whispered hurriedly.

Sandor stared at her as she pulled him flush against her. Her back was against the brick wall, and she could feel the rough texture through the coat. She felt caught between a rock and a hard place, but the sensation was enjoyable.

She realized, as she repeated her command and settled her hands behind Sandor’s neck, why this had been the first thing she thought of. Of course she wanted him to kiss her, but she also hoped that it might throw off their tail enough to get the upper hand.

Her stomach was in knots as Sandor’s hands went to her waist, his head lowering towards hers, and Sansa knew the feeling had nothing to do with being chased by one of Baelish’s goons.

Sandor’s lips met hers in a crash, as though he hadn’t correctly estimated the distance, or the force required. Once against hers, though, the pressure eased, his mouth moving against hers with no more than firm insistence. Sansa’s eyes fluttered shut as her lips parted, letting Sandor’s tongue slip into her mouth, surprising her with his gentleness.

Just as Sansa was sure she was about to puddle, footsteps sounded behind Sandor, shattering the moment. Sansa’s eyes flew open, and she stared up into Sandor’s steel-grey eyes.

“Hands up, slowly,” a gruff voice grunted in Italian.

Sandor slowly leaned back from Sansa, and she caught sight of a gun, right behind Sandor’s head, right next to her hand. She smirked at Sandor, who grinned a crooked smile at her, guessing her thoughts.

Sansa knocked the gun away with her left hand. It went off, a bullet striking the brick wall inches from her head, sending shards flying. Sansa wrestled the gun away as Sandor turned and hit the man square in the jaw with a right hook. Stunned, the man fell back against the other side of the alley, and Sandor kicked him in the gut as he tried to rise.

Sansa peeked around the corner, up and down the street, but didn’t see anyone pursuing. The street looked pretty quiet, dark except for the streetlights every twenty yards or so. She reached into her pockets and pulled out the pair of cotton gloves, pulled them on quickly, then stooped to pick up the gun. She emptied the cartridge in the chamber, ejected the magazine, checked the cartridges loaded there and then slid the magazine back into its slot, cocking back the slide to reload the gun.

“Take him back farther in the alley,” she told Sandor, her voice sounding strange even to her. Sandor glanced up, then stopped to stare at her a moment, eyes flicking over her face. He nodded and pulled the man to his feet, pushing him back towards the back of the alley. Sansa followed, keeping the gun pointed at the man’s back. When she fell in step with Sandor, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

“He’s seen our faces,” he reminded her.

“I know.” She felt oddly calm, considering what she had to do.

“You want me to do it?”

Sansa stopped, planted her feet, and took careful aim in the dim light. The shot echoed through the alley, and a small red bud bloomed on the back of the man’s head as he crumpled to the ground. Sansa cleared the casing from the chamber, ejected the magazine, then broke the barrel apart from the grip. She slipped the pieces into her pockets, knelt and quickly found the casing, stuffing it into her pocket before turning to leave.

At the end of the alley, she stopped, looking up and down the street. All was still silent and empty, a watchful stillness having descended. Sansa held out her hand to Sandor, who took her hand in his and followed her down the street. They walked arm in arm, quickly, turning off the street at the first opportunity.

After five minutes of silent walking, Sansa spotted a storm drain and knelt, emptying the pieces of the gun into the drain, but holding onto the magazine. She would dispose of that in a different drain, somewhere on the way back to the hotel.

She felt grateful to Sandor for his silence. She didn’t think she could talk about it just yet, the first murder she’d ever committed. She didn’t regret it in the least. It was him or them, and not just her and Sandor, but Robb and Theon and Bond, and Margaery. Even Davos and Stannis (though there was no love lost between them, she didn’t wish him ill) depended on the secrecy of this mission. No, she’d never had a choice.

The rational side of her tried to remind her that she’d led many men to their deaths, even if she’d never pulled the trigger. She knew what happened to those sweet-faced boys she lured away from the safety of the cafes, and meeting houses, and drop-offs. She knew, even if she’d never seen direct evidence.

She tried to push it from her mind, the terrible necessity of what she’d done, what she’d had to do. Under normal circumstances, she would have been analyzing the kiss, wondering what it meant, if Sandor thought that had just been a necessity too, or if he realized she’d wanted and meant every second of that kiss. But there was no time for that.

Soon, they were back at the safe house. They slipped in through the side-door, where Robb was waiting for them, looking worried.

“We’re fine, you didn’t have to wait up for us. Everything went like clock-work. Well, not everything.” Sansa realized she was blathering, but Robb wasn’t reacting.

“What is it, what’s wrong?”

“Bond’s been attacked. On his way to the safehouse.”

Sansa glanced up at Sandor. “So were we.”

“We’re doubling-up rooms tonight at the hotel, for safety. We might be recalled soon.”

Sansa nodded decisively. “Sandor and I will double-up. We should stay in the groups we’ve been in previously. If they know about Bond but not us, we shouldn’t mix. Compartmentalize, right?”

Robb looked skeptical, but agreed. “Go get changed, we should head back and try to get some sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, my silly lovebirds! I heart you so much!
> 
> So, that one sentence about Sansa unloading and loading the gun took about 15 minutes of research. If it's wrong, I am sorry. I don't know anything about guns, so I blame the Internet. Also, no there won't be an "and there was only one bed" trope next chapter, because I already established the rooms have two double-beds each. Besides, it's too early for that. Have to see how much longer we can drag out the tension. *evil cackle*
> 
> Thanks again for reading!
> 
> ETA: Also, officially changing rating to explicit because I have planned for added smut that I wasn't sure I was going to include before. Hope everyone approves!


	12. Queen's Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor survive a night alone in the same hotel room, but the experience is not entirely uneventful. The two must work with their allies to make preparations to confront the traitor in MI5.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels like it's been 84 years, but I am back with another chapter. I think15 chapters is going to be a pretty good estimate for this story, with the possibility of an additional epilogue.

_ Sandor _

“Do you have a pair of pyjamas I can borrow?” Sansa asked after opening the door.

Sandor stepped in quickly and shut the door softly behind him before turning a quizzical glance on Sansa.

She shrugged, turning to walk to her suitcase, which she was in the process of moving off of the spare bed.

“Moneypenny sent one of the secretaries to pack for me, but all she sent for sleeping was those lacy little negligees. Fairly sure they aren’t even mine; might be my flatmates. I usually sleep in pyjama tops, uch more comfortable.”

Sandor reached into the discrete bundle of clothes he’d carried under his arm from down the hall, and extricated a folded top, pale blue, which he handed to her.

“You can keep these, I usually only wear the bottoms. Just brought the top in case you minded.”

Sansa accepted the button-down top, rubbing the soft cotton between her fingers. Sandor couldn’t help slightly flushing at the thought of her wearing his clothes, and only got worse as he realized how big they would be on her, and how cute her legs would look sticking out bare under the shirt-tail.

Sansa smirked at him and Sandor turned away hastily, unfolding the clothes he planned to change into the next day, shaking out the wrinkles as Sansa disappeared into the bathroom. It really shouldn’t have surprised him, after weeks with Sansa, how she could turn him into a blushing schoolboy in a matter of moments, but it did.

And she knew exactly what she was doing, too. First the mention of the negligee he’d seen her in that first morning in Rome, the deep-wine color, almost purple, all shiny material that clung to her curves, with the black lace that did nothing to hide her cleavage, one tiny little strap falling down her smooth shoulder. His fingers had itched to touch that soft skin, to slide the strap back up, or better yet, slide the other strap down, let the flimsy material fall all the way down until it pooled on the floor.

He shook his head, hanging up his suit mechanically, then turning down the covers of the second bed. He was glad to have the one by the window. He thought it the likeliest spot for an intrusion, since it was only a second-floor window. He took off his jacket, slung it over the back of the chair at the foot of the bed, then took his gun out of its holster, slipping it under the pillow instead. He checked the window next, making sure it was securely fastened.

After a few minutes, the bathroom door opened. He forced himself not to turn around, fiddling instead with the clock on the nightstand, making a show of checking the time on the watch, adjusting the time on the clock.

When Sansa had finally slipped into bed, he took his small bag of toiletries and headed to the bathroom, eyes averted from the other bed. He flipped off the light by the door,plunging the room into darkness; only the lamp between the beds illuminated the room.

Throughout Sandor’s preparations for bed, he actively did not think about Sansa. He did not picture her red locks (dark brown now, but soon to be red once more) spread across a pillow as he changed clothes. He did not imagine the softness of her skin between the sheets while he brushed his teeth. He did not remember her legs, skinny and pale, beneath his pyjama top, nothing between her skin and his clothes, while he washed his face in the coldest water the tap could manage.

Finally, after using the toilet, he returned to the room, dressed in the pale blue pyjama bottoms, carrying the shed dress shirt and pants. These he lay on the chain beside the jacket, then climbed into bed.

He noticed that he and Sansa both slept on the right side of the bed, as it appeared when facing the headboard. Sandor slept closest to the window, Sansa on the side of her bed further from the door. 

Sansa reached out and flicked off the lamp, wishing him a good night. Sandor kept his back to her, but replied a quick good night, then settled in for what he anticipated would be a sleepless night.

_ Sansa _

Sansa woke to someone shaking her. She startled awake violently, striking out blindly. Someone caught her arms, and the lamp turned on, momentarily blinding her.

“It’s ok, it’s me.” Sansa recognized the voice. A shadow stepped in front of the lamp, and Sansa’s eyes adjusted enough to make out her brother’s face, drawn and anxious. She shot up quickly.

“What’s happened?

“Everyone’s all right. Someone broke into our hotel room. We subdued him, but HQ is calling us back in. We’re compromised.”

Sansa pushed back the covers and swung her legs to the side as Robb stood up. His eyes swept over the pyjama top she wore, glanced to the shadow in front of the lamp. Sansa realized Sandor was standing there, still in the bottoms, with an undershirt thrown on. Robb moved to the dresser and grabbed her suitcase, flopped it onto the bed and opened it.

“No,” she murmured, then repeated herself, louder. Robb stopped moving.

“It’s not safe.”

She shook her head and rubbed her eyes, then stood. “No, we’re staying. You two should go.”

Robb looked at her like she wasn’t thinking clearly, so Sansa continued.

“Our cover is intact. I know it. All of the heat has been focused on you.”

Robb frowned. “You said you got attacked coming back.”

“That was different, that was just some guy at the bar. But we’ve been going through the side-entrance, and we’ve been away from the safe house more than we’ve been there. Our goal is too important to pull out now. If our cover is good, we have to stay.”

“These orders came straight from the top.”

“Respectfully, I don’t care. I’m staying. We’ll check out in the morning, check into a different hotel tomorrow as a married couple. We can pose as locals, my Italian’s good enough, and I’ll let him do most of the talking.”

Robb paused, considering her words. She could tell he was leaning in her favor, so she decided to press on.

“I’ll dress differently, my hair’s darker. Margaery even gave me a spray-on tan, no one will know it’s me.”

“I could shave,” Sandor volunteered. Both Sansa and Robb’s heads turned to stare at the taller man. Sansa tried to imagine him clean-shaven and couldn’t.

Sandor shrugged. “Might help.”

“It’s the scar I’m worried about,” Robb admitted.

“You can hardly see it when he wears a hat,” Sansa noted. “If he tilts it to the side.”

“All right, stay here tonight. I’ll float it by the higher ups. You’re right, we can’t give up while there’s still a chance.”

Robb sighed and frowned at Sansa. “I’m still worried about you tonight. Please stay safe.”

Sandor’s voice rumbled over the room. “She’s safe with me, I guarantee it.”

Robb frowned, looking like he wanted to challenge that pronouncement, but merely nodded instead.

“As long as you feel safe. I trust you,” Robb directed his words and gaze to Sansa.

Sansa nodded. “I know I am.”

Robb nodded curtly, laid a hand on her shoulder. He turned to leave.

“Good-bye,” he said gruffly to Sandor, shooting out his hand to grip the other man’s. They engaged in a brief struggle for dominance, faces stern. Robb finally let go. Sandor nodded at some unspoken agreement between them. Sansa rolled her eyes when her brother couldn’t see.

Robb turned to leave and Sandor shut the door behind him, sliding the deadbolt home. He pulled a chair from the little desk, and tilted it so its back wedged under the doorknob.

Sansa sank into the bed, pulling her legs up to her chest and tucking her chin over her knees. The adrenaline was wearing off and the enormity of her actions washed over her.

Sandor walked to the armchair by the foot of his bed, picked up the suit he had draped over the back. He stopped when he saw her face.

“Ye all right?” he gruffed.

Sansa nodded. “Am I being reckless?”

Sandor shrugged. “It’s what we do. Without calculated risks, we’re nowhere. For what it’s worth, I agree with you.”

He left for the washroom, and returned shortly, having changed into his suit pants and dress shirt.

“Why are you dressed?” Sansa asked as Sandor checked the window again, before sinking into the armchair.

“I slept enough,” Sandor muttered, pulling a battered paperback book out of his pocket.

“I’m not sleepy either,” she protested.

Sandor shrugged. “Then we’ll both stay up.” He opened the book, slipping the bookmark back behind the front cover, and began to read.

Sansa sat there for a few minutes. She glanced at the clock. 3:36. Like a young child, she could feel her eyelids getting heavy. Eventually, she lay down, pulling the covers over her.

Fifteen minutes later, she reached over to flick off the lamp. The last thing she saw was Sandor, pulling out a penlight, the narrow beam illuminating his face for just a moment.

  
  
  


Sansa awoke and stretched, and suddenly remembered everything that had happened in the night. For the second time in just a few hours, she bolted up in bed, staring at Sandor through bleary eyes. He was still sitting in the armchair at the foot of his bed, though he no longer needed the penlight. Small amounts of light were peeking in through the cracks of the curtains. Sansa thought for a moment that she must have overslept, but then remembered the sun rose very early now.

Sandor fished out his bookmark, marked his place, and shut the book, balancing it on his knee.

“Has everyone left?” she asked, pushing back the covers and going to the window to throw back the curtains.

Sandor delicately diverted his gaze from her bare legs, inspecting the cover of his book instead. Sansa saw as she walked by that it was an Italian translation of Frankenstein.

“Yes, early this morning. Your brother got a message to me before he left, we’ve been approved to stay.” He handed Sansa a piece of paper.

She read through it once, quickly, then tore it into small pieces. She looked out the window again, wondering again if she was crazy to insist they stay. But it was too late for second thoughts. Events were very much in motion, as evidenced by Robb’s note. “Leaving now, Marg staying, Stag picking you up tomorrow at 0800 and taking you to new hotel. Love you.”

Her eyes flicked to the alarm clock, 7:30.

“I was just about to wake you. I should really go pack.”

Sansa turned from the window, shutting the curtains again. “Yes, go pack. I’ll be fine.”

“We’ll have to check out separately for appearances. I’ll go out at 8 and tell the car to come back for you.” He looked at her with a concerned expression.

“Stop that. I’ll be fine. I can handle myself alone for 5 minutes.”

Sandor nodded sternly, and Sansa realized they were alone, all alone, in a hotel room, with her half-dressed. The kiss still very much lingered between them, and for a moment, Sandor’s eyes rested on her face, and she thought maybe he was thinking of it too. Then he turned and left without another word, and Sansa found herself just a little disappointed.

Of course, they didn’t have much time, and she needed to not only get dressed but also pack up her things. Looking around, she realized that would take a while, since she hadn’t exactly had a lot of time for cleaning up recently. She looked from the things that had come back from the laundry, still hung up in their paper wrappings in the little closet, the shoes scattered across the floor, then remembered her toiletries spread out on the bathroom counter. But surely a kiss wouldn’t have taken that long?

Sansa brushed out her hair and dressed quickly, reminding herself why she was here, of the mission at hand. Soon it would be over, and there would be plenty of time to finally talk about whatever this was between them.

_ Or he’ll go back undercover on another mission and I’ll never see him again. _ The thought came unbidden, and Sansa stared at herself in the mirror, worrying the thought like a dog with a bone.

“Well that’s helpful, thank you,” she told her reflection sarcastically.

_ Talking to yourself, _ her thoughts replied.  _ Never a good sign. _

  
  
  


_ Sandor _

Packed and ready within five minutes, Sandor sat by the front door of his hotel room, and wondered how he was possibly going to make it through another night in the same hotel room as Sansa. He mainly got up to read because he hadn’t slept much anyway, and if he was going to be awake, he’d prefer to be clothed and not lying horizontally.

It wasn’t that she specifically did anything to put him off or disturb anything, certainly not intentionally. It was just being in that room with her, smelling her scent, some subtle aroma that renewed itself every time she rolled over, a fresh, feminine fragrance, a subtler version of what he’d smelled in the alley, pressing her up against a wall, kissing her like a feral tomcat.

Just the thought of it made him need a cold shower. Realistically speaking, it had been a while since he’d been that close to a woman. Unlike others in his line of work, Sandor didn’t sleep around, he found it hard to trust anyone on a mission, and the time he had back home was minimal, usually just enough time to remind himself what the flat looked like, and then out the door again. He supposed that, reasonably speaking, there were establishments that could take care of that kind of thing, but he hadn’t been to one since Korea, when he’d come down with an unfortunate case of what was colloquially called “R&R Syndrome”. So between his aversion to prostitution, inability to relax around someone long enough to even flirt, and his work schedule that kept him away from home far too long to even think about holding onto a steady girlfriend, the opportunities for sex were sparse.

But he had never really minded it before. Less complicated this way. He took care of his needs when he needed to, and that was that. Until the kiss.

He didn’t even really like kissing, he thought. He racked his brains. When was the last time he had even kissed a girl? It had been longer ago than the prostitute, he hadn’t done anything intimate like that with her. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d kissed anyone, he’d never had a sweetheart in school or anything, then it’d been the military for him, and then he thought the scar had pretty much killed any romance opportunities before they could begin.

But Sansa hadn’t seemed to mind it. Granted, she’d probably just grabbed him like that to throw off pursuit. But still, she could have just embraced him, a kiss probably wasn’t strictly necessary. No, every cell in his body had been screaming out to him when she pulled him close, ordered him to kiss her, his instincts told her she’d wanted him to kiss her. And that had been no chaste peck, she had responded to that kiss, closing her eyes and opening her mouth to him, inviting him to deepen the kiss. He could still feel her hands on the back of his neck, warm and soft.

“Get it together, Clegane,” he murmured to himself. He checked his watch. Still fifteen minutes to go.

He’d distracted himself as well as he could through the small hours of the morning with his book, careful not to shine the light on Sansa. At first, she was obviously awake, shifting periodically, turning over from time to time. But she had soon fell asleep, and the soft sounds of her breathing were almost comforting, just lingered in the background of his thoughts as he read.

But an hour or so before dawn, she had started to dream, limbs moving erratically, murmuring in her sleep. It sounded like she was running, or being chased by someone, and Sandor thought back to that evening, how she had calmly and efficiently deferred his offer to take responsibility, and killed the man who had followed them. Sandor wouldn’t call it murder, it’d been necessary. If they were to save the lives of hundreds of British agents, then it had to be done. But he was sure that was a cold comfort to her, he knew it was to him, every time he carried out a necessary, state-sanctioned murder.

Eventually, her dreams had subsided, and she slept peacefully again. By then, a little pre-dawn light was creeping in through a small gap in the curtains. Sandor had leaned over and flicked the curtains apart. Not much, just enough that he could put away his light, although he found himself studying the bed and its occupant more than his book.

It wasn’t that there was anything particularly attractive about her when she slept, other than the obvious, of course. It was the ease of her, how soft her face looked, the way her beautiful features looked completely different relaxed in sleep. She started smiling at some dream she was having, and Sandor felt his own mouth quirking up at the corner, much to his amazement. He couldn’t help imagining again, wondering how her soft skin would feel against hers, the shape of her against him. That would be a sleepless night, but he didn’t think he’d mind.

Sandor snapped back to the present. Ten til. Sandor stood and picked up his one bag, not exactly a suitcase, more of a hanging garment back that he slung over his back with an adjustable strap. It served the double purpose of keeping his suits hung up so they wouldn’t wrinkle, and leaving his arms free when he walked.

He headed down to the front desk, checked out, then found the black car, just a few paces away from the hotel. He slid into the backseat, surprised to find Sansa already in the front. Davos smiled at him from the front seat. Sandor turned to Sansa in surprise, but she just shrugged.

“I came down early, just in case. We drove around the blocks a few times before coming to get you.”

Sandor chuckled. “God forbid we stick to my plans, eh?” he asked as the car pulled away.

  
  
  


Davos had the driver drop them at a new hotel, one he assured them was run by Stannis. “You’ll sleep well, I guarantee it. Drop off your things, then Stannis wants to see you again.”

It was strange to Sandor, walking into the hotel together, their marriage certificate (under the names Sarah and Sandro Costa, provided by Davos) in his breast pocket. After so many weeks of trailing her inside any building, walking together only when they were sure they weren’t being tailed, it felt strange to carry her suitcase, see her smile at him like they were a normal couple. It felt strange, but oddly comforting. Sansa slipped her hand into his, leaned in to whisper, “Remember, we’re newlyweds.”

Sandor felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Of course, the charade.

They checked in quickly, with no fuss. The front desk clerk asked to see their marriage certificate, glanced at it, slid the register across the counter and handed him the key. Sandor and Sansa took the elevator up to the third floor.

It was a nice room, at the end of the hallway, which Sandor appreciated. They wouldn’t have a lot of traffic by their door. The door had double deadbolts, though the key only opened the doorknob. Sandor wondered what this room was otherwise used for.

Sansa slung her suitcase on the bed, and that’s when it occurred to Sandor. He’d been too busy appraising hallway traffic and locks to realize the obvious truth.

“One bed?” he asked. Sansa turned and looked at him unconcernedly.

“So?” she asked, hanging the garment bag she’d carried in the little closet. “If you ever do get married, Sandro, please make sure you don’t book a room with two beds on your honeymoon.”

She looked at him sympathetically. “Will it be a problem? I mean, it’s a big bed, we needn’t disturb each other.”

Sandor shook his head. “It looks big now, but I’m a pretty big guy, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“If you want to cuddle with me, just say so,” Sansa said, and Sandor realized she was teasing.

“Maybe I didn’t want to listen to you snore all night.” He laid his garment bag on the bed, unzipped it, and retrieved his bag of toiletries. He looked up and was rewarded by the mixture of surprise and disgust on Sansa’s face.

“I do not snore,” she protested.

“How would you know, you’re asleep,” he retorted as he deposited the bag in the washroom. “Come one, let’s go.”

Sansa was quiet on the ride to Stannis’s office building, and Sandor worried he’d finally offended her. Maybe she was just trying to be more circumspect than her first visit. Davos took them up to the top floor again, but this time a familiar sight was awaiting them just outside the lift doors.

Margaery was sitting on one of the sofas, and gave them a big smile when they stepped out of the lift. “Sleep well, kids?”

“Not particularly,” Sandor admitted.

“Get used to it. The good news is, we know when the meeting will be. Bad news, we still don’t know the identity of the double-agent.”

Sansa and Sandor took seats across from Margaery, as Davos took a discreet standing position back by Stannis’s desk. Sansa’s eyes followed him, and Margaery noted it.

“As you can imagine, the safehouse had to be abandoned. We think Baelish’s people were having it watched. Unfortunately, the other agents weren’t as careful as you two in masking their comings and goings and watching for tails. And I’ve had more disturbing news. Thomas has gone missing.”

Sansa’s face went pale, which surprised Sandor. He didn’t think she cared about the little shit. As far as he was concerned, Greyjoy had been a liability this entire mission, seeming to need more babysitting, and not worth the trouble, to Sandor’s mind. But Sandor knew Greyjoy was good friends with Sansa’s brother, so maybe it was on that point that she was concerned.

“How can an agent just disappear?” Sandor asked.

Margaery shook her head once. “It might be easier than you think. Thomas knows the city. If he wanted to go unnoticed, I’m sure he could. Which makes his recent carelessness all the more confusing.”

Sansa folded her lips together for a moment. “What are our next steps. Regarding Baelish.”

Margaery smiled. “We’re going to a party. Tomorrow night at Baelish’s home. The meeting is supposed to be early in the morning the next day. We’re going to attempt the same trick with the tracker.”

Sansa didn’t look convinced. “We’ll never plant a tracker on Baelish. He’s far too careful.”

Sandor also had doubts. “What if he changes clothes? Finds the tracker? Is this our only plan?”

“I understand your concerns. We don’t have a lot of options. We need Baelish to go to this meeting. It’s the only way we can find out who the leak is, now. We’ve interrogated everyone close to Baelish. No one knows who it is.”

Sansa shrugged. “Then we’ll go. I’ll figure it out. I’ve always been pretty good at getting men to do pretty much whatever I want them to do.”

“Do you have a dress?”

Sansa glanced at Sandor and nodded. I have one that’ll serve.”

“We want you to stand out. You’re trying to catch Baelish’s eye, not blend in.”

“I won’t blend in.”

“Good. I think you should also wash out the dye. I’ve got a special shampoo that should help, I’ll send it over to the hotel.”

“You said ‘we’,” Sandor interjected.

“Sansa will be going as Stannis’s date. Obviously, leave the wedding ring at home. Sandor and I will also be going together,” Margaery advised.

“Won’t they recognize you?” Sansa asked.

“I’ll be a kind of distraction, as well. Keep his attention and distrust on me. We pretend to have a cordial relationship, Baelish and I. And since you’re arriving with Stannis, Sarah, you should be above suspicion.”

Sandor found that doubtful, but agreed. Margaery produced a slim folder of documents that she handed to Sansa. “For you to look over. The layout, information about servants, as well as your covers. I think you should probably lay low for today, so after this, you should probably head back to the hotel. It’s run by Stannis’s people, so it should be safe. The room you’re in acts as a safehouse for Stannis’s people, hence the locks.”

She turned to Sandor. “You don’t have a tuxedo, do you? Black tie party.”

Sandor scowled. “Must have left it in my villa.”

“A tailor’s downstairs, I’ll take you.”

“Do you mind if I go?” Sansa interrupted. Margaery arched a silky brow.

“We should probably stay together,” Sansa added, and Margaery demurred.

“Second floor. left then second door on the right.”

She remained behind as Sansa and Sandor took the lift down. The second floor was more what Sandor would expect from an office building. Off-white walls, thin dull-grey carpet, fluorescent lighting. Sansa paused outside the lift doors, waited until they closed and the car returned to the first floor.

“Thomas,” she said, the look of concerned panic back in her face.

“What about him? He’s probably on a binge or something. You know how much he drinks.”

She leaned closer, so only Sandor could hear her whisper. “What if he’s the traitor?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Gasp* only one bed?!?
> 
> Also, bonus points if anyone knows my "sitting at your bedside while you sleep because I'm a manly protector" inspiration!


	13. Shaken and Stirred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Sandor and Sansa to infiltrate Baelish's home, with the help of Stannis and Margaery. Baelish thinks he's seducing a hapless young girl, but quickly finds himself in over his head. Unfortunately, so does Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Party time!!!! This one's a bit longer than most of my chapters, but I hope you like it.
> 
> Warning for Sansa/Petyr. You can skip ahead when it says: "'My dear,' Baelish said in a low voice" and start reading again when it says "Sansa felt her stomach lurch again". Although if you don't like Petyr, you can still read it. I'm def not writing him in a pleasant light.
> 
> Also, a bit of hurt/comfort in this chapter. Hope you like it, if that's your thing. I don't think I realized that it was one of my things before writing this, so I got to learn a little bit about myself today.

_Sansa_

Sansa had washed her hair three times, and the red was finally coming back. It was a little bit of a relief, to take off the towel that had been swaddling her hair, and see her familiar red locks, still dark auburn as they dried. She supposed she would have to get used to this process, there might be many times when she would have to hide her natural hair color. She combed her fingers through the ends, and applied a conditioning balm to try to prevent any damage from the multiple washings.

She came out of the bathroom, flicking on the fan as she went to whisk away the humidity. She sighed as she glanced over the empty room. As soon as Sansa and Sandor had returned to the room, and Sansa had mentioned needing to shower and wash her hair, Sandor had vanished from the hotel room, to where Sansa wasn’t exactly sure, as Margaery had expressly asked them not to leave the hotel. But she thought maybe he’d gone down to the hotel bar or the little restaurant.

At that thought, Sansa’s stomach rumbled. She supposed she’d better think about ordering something to eat, or heading down to the restaurant herself. She didn’t like going without Sandor, or even leaving the room without knowing where he was. It was odd, a few weeks ago, she wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But she had promised her brother she would be safe, so it was time to be cautious.

Sansa flopped down on the bed and dug out the menu for lunch. She had just about decided on an antipasto appetizer and minestrone, maybe with a nice salad on the side, when a knock came on the door, the knock they had agreed on to announce when they were entering, so the other wouldn’t be alarmed. Two slow knocks, followed by three quick ones, then the door opened.

Sandor came in, his book in one hand, and a bag of takeout in the other.

“Where have you been?” Sansa asked, trying to supress the tone of worry that had crept in.

“I went to the restaurant and read for a while. Didn’t want to be in your way.”

He carried the bag of takeout to a little table by the window, then glanced at her and away quickly. Sansa realized she was still wearing her robe.

“I brought you some lunch. That antipasto you like.”

Sansa stood and walked to the table. She couldn’t help but notice Sandor stiffened and stepped aside. “People are going to think we’re very strange newlyweds if you keep spending all your time downstairs,” she noticed, then glanced inside the bag. A little styrofoam bowl of reddish soup, and a container of salad.

“That’s just what I was going to order,” she said, glancing over at him. He wasn’t looking at her, though, but at the window, shifting the curtain aside to glance outside. Sansa sighed.

“You’re doing that thing again.”

Sandor looked over at her finally. “What thing?”

“When you act like you can’t stand to be in a room with me.”

Sandor looked surprised and Sansa felt a stab of regret. She wondered for a moment where this was coming from. Surely she could be left alone for a few hours without feeling abandoned? Why did she care if he didn’t look at her when she spoke to him?

“You’re not dressed, I was giving you space. Besides, it’s just one more day.”

Sansa felt her jaw clench, then forced herself to relax the muscles of her face. She walked to her suitcase, took out a pair of trousers and a sweater, and went to the washroom to change. When she came back out, she felt a little better, more herself.

“There, now I’m dressed. Is that better?”

But Sandor didn’t respond, except to glance at her and press his lips into a thin line. She snuck sidelong glances at him as she unpacked her lunch, having opened the curtains to let some light in. He was sitting at the table reading the papers Margaery had sent home with them. Sansa already had them memorized, of course, but Sandor had studied them several times, probably relying on repetition to aid his retention.

Sansa ate her lunch, beginning with the soup, so it wouldn’t get cold. It was minestrone, the same she had been thinking of ordering. Did Sandor know her so well?

She slid his book across the tabletop, flipped it open to the beginning. Sandor glanced over, then back down at the papers. Sansa finished her lunch to the quiet sound of pages flipping over.

A few hours later, it was time to dress. Sansa was halfway through Frankenstein: o il moderno Prometeo, and Sandor seemed finally satisfied with his memory. Sansa looked up when Sandor shut the folder of papers and glanced at his watch.

“I can change out here if you want to use the bathroom,” he suggested, going to the closet and taking out the tux that had been delivered while Sandor was out. He zipped it open and quickly verified the contents.

Sansa took her dress and bag of cosmetics into the bathroom, changing quickly into the blue gown. A plunging neckline meant no shoulder holster, and Margaery had warned against a thigh holster, as they would be frisked upon entry. It also meant no bra, so Sansa had tried on the dress earlier, to verify the fit of the shoulder straps would be snug enough to prevent any awkward slips. She had to admit it was a beautiful dress, and it fit like it was tailored to her.

She combed through her hair with her fingers, having decided to leave it down. Most Italian men preferred long hair, and she was lucky enough to have hair halfway down her back, glowing red, curling naturally into wavy tendrils. It would definitely help her stand out. She also left her makeup minimal, a little dark brown eyeliner, a swipe of dark brown mascara the same color as her lashes and brows, a light sweep of blush over the apples of her cheeks, and an application of pale pink lipstick. She stepped back to admire the effect.

If she hadn’t been convinced that her efforts were successful, Sandor’s face as she left the bathroom would have dispelled any doubts. He was standing by the window, his perpetual guard post, and he turned towards her as the door opened. She stepped into the small room, standing just a few meters away. His expression, usually carefully neutral, broke slightly, in subtle hints that another might not have noticed. His eyebrows parted, relaxing from their usual furrow, and rose slightly, at the same time his mouth parted just a few millimeters to draw in a small breath of air. His eyes slowly moved down from her face, down the front of her dress, then back up, lingering on her mouth.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat and looked at his watch for a moment, giving Sansa the opportunity to size him up.

The tux fit him even better than her dress fit her, and she let her eyes wander over his broad shoulders, the way the black satin lapels tapered towards his waist. The black bow tie, only slightly crooked.

“You look nice,” he finally said, turning away from his watch as Sansa retrieved a pair of matching blue high heels from her suitcase. Sansa was just about to reply when the phone rang, too loud in the quiet room. Sandor answered the phone as Sansa slipped on her shoes.

“Yes? We’ll be right down.”

Sandor replaced the phone on the cradle. “Stannis will meet us at the lift. You’re riding down to a back entrance with him. There’s a car out front for me.”

Sansa picked up her clutch, made sure her lipstick and passport (a fake one, of course) were stowed away, as well as Lady, sewn into the lining. Sandor began to walk by her towards the door, but Sansa stopped him, laying her hand on his shoulder.

“Stand still,” she bade him, and he stood still as she reached up and straightened his tie, twisting it first one way, then back, making sure it wouldn’t tilt again as soon as she let go. She placed thumb and forefinger of each hand on the sides and tightened the bows, just a few millimeters. She looked up at him when she was done, checking to make sure it was straight and centered, and flushed at the sudden realization of their nearness.

“You look nice, too,” she said simply, smoothing the front of his shirt with her hand. She turned suddenly and headed toward the front door, heart fluttering as she heard his sharp exhale of breath behind her.

They left the room and Sandor securely locked the deadbolt behind them. Sansa saw Stannis waiting at the end of the hall. He looked her over as they approached, critically, however, like she was a car he wanted to buy or a property he was considering investing in and wanted to know if she was worth the down payment. He nodded his approval, in the end, and hit the button to summon the lift. They all stepped into the car, and Stannis used a key to request a stop at the basement.

“Once we get out, ride up to the main floor,” Stannis instructed Sandor. “Margaery is waiting in a car out front.”

Sandor nodded silently. On impulse, when the doors opened and Stannis led the way out, Sansa reached over and clasped Sandor’s hand, squeezing it for just a moment before letting go. She heard the doors begin to shut moments later, and cast one brief glance over her shoulder. Sandor nodded at Sansa, his eyes surprisingly tender.

The doors closed and Sansa hurried to catch up to Stannis, who had not paused to wait for her. Davos was standing at the door, and he smiled and nodded at her as she stepped into the limousine, shutting the door behind her.

As the car moved on, Stannis passed her a black velvet box, what appeared to be a jewelry box, in the same manner he might pass her a stick of gum. Sansa opened the box to find a necklace of beautiful and dazzling rubies, three rows of gems as red as blood, interspersed with white diamonds. All the jewels were set in white gold. It looked heavy and expensive. Sansa couldn’t help but admire them, though she wondered what the purpose of the necklace was. Surely Stannis wasn’t giving her a gift?

He took the box from her and removed the strand of jewels, which tinkled like an intricate chandelier, flipping it over with hands that were surprisingly delicate. He removed a fake back from the largest jewel in the middle of the bottom tier, removing what looked like a tiny reddish semi-precious stone, not as transparent as the other gems. He held it between thumb and forefinger, and Sansa confirmed it was only three or four centimeters long.

“This,” he said, moving his hand a little closer to Sansa and pausing for emphasis, “is proprietary technology. Acquired by Stag Enterprises at a very high cost. It is a prototype, there are a handful in existence in the world, making it so rare its value is almost incalculable. This necklace is worth almost 600,000 pounds sterling.”

He over-emphasized the last words, gesturing with the hand holding the prototype, punctuating each pause. He stared her down for a moment before replacing the small device into the hollow “jewel” and replacing the back. Sansa watched him closely and knew she would be able to replicate the process. “This is, full all intents and purposes, priceless.”

“What is it?”

“A tracker. When the time is right, slip it into Baelish’s pocket, or somewhere more secure if you can. It is vitally important that the tracker make it onto Baelish’s person, so use whatever means necessary to complete your mission. Do you understand?”

She nodded, mouth dry. Stannis motioned with her hand for her to turn around. Once she had shifted so her back was to him, he took the necklace and passed it over her head, to rest on her chest, just below her sternum. Stannis quickly and efficiently locked the clasp. The gold was cold against her skin.

“And don’t lose it. Or I swear, I’ll bill you.”

  
  


_Sandor_

Margaery stayed close behind him for most of the night, introducing him as a “colleague”. His cover as some form of intelligence was pretty well blown in Italy by this appearance next to a known intelligence agent, so long as they stuck to his pseudonym and he spoke in Italian. The evening was fairly dull, mostly full of idle chatter (on Margaery’s side, that was, and mercifully not directed at him, for the most part) and watching Sansa out of the corner of his eye.

She really was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and certainly the most dazzling in the ballroom that evening. Her gown, blue as the sky at twilight, blue as her eyes, fluttered in gossamer clouds around her, glistening softly in the low lighting. He was far from the only man watching her that night. It wrenched his gut to see the men flocking to her, trying to steal her for a dance, but Stannis kept them at a distance with an iron stare. A few times an hour, he would dance with her, to the strains of the live band, men in dazzling white suits, and the singer crooning classic Italian ballads, _L’immensita_ , _Io Che Non Vivo_ , and his personal favorite, _Quando, Quando, Quando_. During these turns about the room, it didn’t matter where he was, or where she was, he couldn’t help but know, at any moment, where she was in the room, like a compass pointing north.

Finally, Baelish seemed to take the bait. Sandor watched, halfway through his fourth martini, as Baelish cut in on Stannis and Sansa. Stannis and Baelish shared a hearty laugh about something, and Baelish made a show of asking Stannis (not Sansa, of course) if he could dance with her. Stannis gave his consent, and handed Sansa off, like a bill of goods. Watching her smile and flirt with the oily bastard turned Sandor’s stomach.

“Wow, you’ve got it bad, eh?” Margaery piped up, all but forgotten at his side.

Sandor lit a cigarette, his catch-all activity whenever he wanted to hide his emotions or delay having to answer a potentially problematic question. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re practically staring at her,” Margaery replied. “I mean, you’re fairly good at covering it up, but anyone who knew you, which I imagine is a miniscule percentage of the population, could see it. _Inamoratto_.”

He scoffed at her, but just then he saw Sansa turn her dazzling smile on Baelish. It was brutal, to be faced with the direct evidence of how easily she could turn that charm on, and for just about anyone.

 _Of course_ , he scolded himself. _It’s a job. Her job. She’ll do whatever she has to for the mission._

 _And what if you’re no different than those other guys? What if you mean no more to her than Baelish?_ a nasty part of him articulated the worry that had been niggling at him for days.

The dance ended, and Baelish took Sansa’s arm. leading her from the dance floor. She looked around the room a few times, but Stannis was nowhere to be seen. No doubt he’d made himself scarce, hoping that Baelish would do exactly this, pull Sansa away from the ballroom to an adjacent room. Where a guard stood outside the door.

“Careful, you’re gripping that glass so tightly, you will surely snap it in two!”

Sandor threw back the rest of his drink and stood.

“Where are you going?” Margaery asked.

“For a piss,” he grumbled.

“Be careful, Sandro. Don’t get caught wandering around.”

He shrugged. “I’ll just say I had a few too many and got lost on the way back. Happens all the time.”

_Sansa_

Sansa was exactly where she wanted to be, and she wished she was hundreds of miles away. First, being handed off to Baelish, a slimy fish of a little man. His hand on her back crept slowly to her bare skin as they danced. Finally, when the song was over, she looked around for Stannis, but he seemed to have vanished. She steeled her resolve and let Baelish lead her away from the dance floor, to a small room, either the study or the library. The guard who took position outside the door didn’t escape her notice.

Baelish led her to a low sofa, depositing her with a smile and a small kiss on the back of her hand. He stood for a moment admiring her.

“You are simply lovely, my dear. I wonder where that stick in the mud Stannis found you?”

Knowing from Margaery’s briefings that the last thing he would care about were her opinions, she remained silent, deciding to let her expressions match her feelings of trepidation and unease. She let her eyes flutter to the floor under his scrutiny. After a moment he stepped away, to a sideboard where he uncorked a bottle of champagne and poured the frothy drink into flutes. Sansa took this opportunity to quickly survey the room. She was relieved to see another exit. She was fairly certain she knew where she was now, the study on the north side of the house. That second door led to the living quarters. She might be temporarily caught, but she was far from trapped. And if she could just get him to let her pour a drink…

“My dear,” Baelish said in a low voice, almost a purr, as he handed her a glass of champagne and took a seat next to her.

Sansa sipped the bubbly drink, though she had never much liked champagne. It just went to your head, which was no doubt Baelish’s intention. Either that or to impress her. Sansa noted that the label of the bottle was artfully pointed toward her, and it was worth more than she made in a month. The fact that it had been left here, already chilled, told Sansa he always knew he was headed here at the end of the evening, it was just a matter of what girl would accompany him.

He had got more than he’d bargained for this time.

It was lucky Baelish didn’t care for conversation, as she didn’t think she could have made idle chatter at that moment. It was a far different thing from luring a guileless young man out of a cafe, to being in this man’s lair, with armed guards just a call away. Sansa felt how close she was to danger she truly was, and let it guide her performance. She sat stiffly, sipping the drink, as Baelish stroked her arm, progressing steadily to kissing her neck.

“Come to bed with me, darling,” he murmured, and Sansa couldn’t help stiffening slightly.

“Isn’t that why you’re here? Stannis brings me lovely danties from time to time, I just assumed you were one.”

 _Fuck, does he think I’m a prostitute?_ Sansa smiled slightly, trying to adopt the innocent reticence of a virgin, which wasn’t too far of a stretch for her. “I’m not, I mean, I never-”

Luckily, Baelish took from her stammered mumblings exactly what she would have wished him to think, and he instantly softened, visibly excited at the idea of a virgin.

“Dearest, you are a little dainty, aren’t you? Go on, drink up. It will relax you.”

As soon as their flutes were empty, Sansa shifted, placing one hand on Baelish’s thigh, leaning forward to set their empty glasses on the coffee table. She let her hand run down, and then back up his leg, leaning close to him. As soon as she was sure she had his full attention, his hand burying itself in her hair just by the nape of her neck and his eyes, the color of limpid pools of stale pond water, were locked on hers, Sansa used her right hand to open her clutch behind her back and palm one of the tablets Margaery had given her that morning.

Just as Baelish was leaning in for a kiss, Sansa shied away, letting him kiss her neck instead. He moaned softly, and she tried not to gag.

“I think the champagne is working. Shall I refill our glasses?” she asked.

Baelish leaned back, staring down her dress at her cleavage. “Why not? I like watching you move.”

Sansa tittered like that was the most charming thing she’d ever heard, and leaned forward to pick up the glasses. After that, it was a simple matter to slip the tablet into the glass, and though it fizzled slightly as she poured the champagne in, the general froth of bubbles hid this fairly well. Now to distract him until the tablet fully dissolved.

“My, these are beautiful paintings!” she stopped on her way back to the sofa, holding the two flutes and gazing admiringly at a fairly ordinary landscape on the wall. She turned back to see Baelish looking at the painting with an indulgent expression, then at the glass. She handed it to him, and he fixed his eyes at a clump of bubbles in the very bottom of the glass. As soon as he took it, they broke apart and rose to the surface.

He looked at her again, a gleam of suspicion over his features. He handed the glass back to her. “You drink it first, darling.”

She smiled and took the glass, taking a long gulp and handing it back. He seemed mollified, he sipped the drink. Sansa took a sip of her own drink, and desperately tried to think of ways to get him to drink faster. She wouldn’t have long.

She came back to sit on the sofa, kicking off her shoes and leaning back against the arm, kicking her feet up on Baelish’s lap. He stroked her skin as Sansa downed her drink. When he leaned forward to crouch above her, she gestured to his still-full glass.

“You’ll spill,” she protested.

Baelish downed the glass of champagne, to Sansa’s relief, then set the glass on the coffee table. Now to fend him off until the drug could do its work, and fight off her own growing drowsiness.

Baelish contented himself with kissing her neck, nibbling on her ear. He shifted her necklace so he could kiss and lick down her cleavage. Sansa felt her dinner threatening to come up on her at the feeling of his wet, sticky fumblings.

“Mmm darling,” he murmured, and suddenly all of his weight fell on her.

Sansa felt her stomach lurch again, with the added weight on her abdomen not helping at all. She managed to squirm from underneath him, sliding to the floor with a slight thump. Quickly, she removed the necklace, and fished around in Baelish’s pocket for his wallet. She removed the false back of the jewel, and slid the thin fob into a pocket of his wallet, behind his Diner’s Club card. She put the wallet back exactly where she had found it, and managed to replace the fake back of the jewel.

Putting the necklace back on proved to be too challenging, so she slipped it into her purse instead. She grabbed both glasses, not that she had any idea what to do with them, but she did not want to leave her fingerprints, or direct evidence of drugging, behind. She headed to the door, the one that led to the residence, swaying slightly, at the last minute remembering to go back for her shoes. Then she remembered the champagne bottle that had her fingerprints as well.

She finally got through the door, which was blessedly unguarded, and ran into Sandor, quite literally, distracted with balancing her clutch, shoes, two champagne glasses, and an ice cold bottle of champagne. She lost her grip, and the two glasses fell and shattered.

“Shhhh!!!” Sansa hissed at the glasses, then glanced up at Sandor, swaying dangerously. Sandor caught her, noticed her shoes hanging from her hand, and picked her up so she wouldn’t cut her feet.

“Are you drunk?”

“Roo-roof-feed-roofeed.”

“Roofed?”

“It’s called roo-hip-nol and Marg gave it to me.”

“You used it on Baelish? Is it done?” Sandor quickly carried Sansa to an alcove behind a staircase, where they would be less noticeable if anyone came down the corridor.

“Yesss.”

“Why are you drugged if you used it on Baelish?”

“Mm Made me drink it too. I’m just- take nap.”

_Sandor_

Margaery came into sight, just as Sandor was sure they would be caught. She took in the sight of Sansa, not passed out, but drowsing against his shoulder, and seemed to instantly put two and two together.

“Did she?”

“She says she did. Where’s the necklace?”

Margaery took the clutch and verified its contents.

“It’s here. Ok. Let’s get her shoes on. What’s with the champagne bottle?”

“Fingerpints,” Sansa mumbled and then subsided.

“I’ll get rid of it,” Sandor said, as Margaery pushed Sansa’s feet into her shoes.

“Do that. I’ll get her back to your hotel. You should leave soon, too.”

“Where’s-” he started to ask where Stannis was, but Margaery cut him off, perhaps to avoid the name, in case anyone overheard.

“He already left. Get rid of the bottle, and head back to the hotel as soon as you can. It’ll be no trouble getting her out, she just looks pretty drunk.”

“Won’t people wonder if they see her with you? Connect her to, you know, what you do?”

“We don’t have any other options. It’ll look worse if you take her, trust me. Me, it just looks like I’m helping a drunk girl out. Let’s go. Wake up, sweetie.”

“Who are you?” Sansa slurred, letting Sandor and Margaery pull her to her feet.

“Charming.”

  
  


Sandor unlocked the hotel room. It had been a fairly easy process to duck out through the kitchens, smashing the bottle in a dumpster. Shame too, expensive vintage. Then he found the car Stannis had left for him, and had the driver take a meandering route through the city first, to make sure he wasn’t followed.

He gave the signature knock, then opened the door to find the bathroom door open, Sansa sprawled beside the toilet and Margaery rubbing her back and wiping her forehead with a damp washcloth. She stood up at the sight of Sandor.

“You’ll have to take over, I have to go help with tracking Baelish.”

Sandor goggled at her, and at Sansa, who was moaning softly. “I can’t- does she need to go to a hospital?”

“She’ll be fine. Surprised she didn’t just pass out. She must have gotten a small enough dose to just make her queasy. She’ll probably just puke a few more times and then pass out. Get her to drink some water if you can, and if she can keep it down.”

Margaery gave him a wry grin and a thumbs-up, then departed as fast as she could. Sandor bolted the front door, and stepped into the bathroom.

“Too bright,” Sansa moaned. Sandor turned off the overhead light, which was rather glaring, leaving the room lit by the softer yellow lamp just outside the bathroom door. He ran the washcloth through some cold water, rung it out, and crouched beside Sansa.

“How are you feeling champ?” he asked. As if in answer, Sansa leaned forward to the toilet. Sandor held her hair back as she heaved a few times. Not much came up, which Sandor hoped was a good sign. Hopefully it was mostly out of her system now.

“That good, eh?” he asked as she leaned back, mopping her forehead with the damp cloth.

“Hate champagne,” she murmured. Sandor slid down the wall to a seated position, with his back against the wall across from the toilet. He leaned forward to flush away the bile.

“Here, rinse your mouth and spit it out. Don’t drink it just yet.”

Sansa followed his instructions, dribbling a little water onto herself as she leaned forward to spit into the toilet. Sandor pulled a towel down from the rack behind him and dried her chin.

“I must look awful,” she murmured, rocking back and forth for a moment, holding onto the edge of the bathtub beside her. Her eyes were teared up and she looked miserable.

Sandor touched her hair, pushing a damp strand back from her forehead. “You look beautiful.”

She snorted, which made Sandor laugh. Then she pitched forward, face-first towards the floor.

Sandor leaned forward and caught her, pulling her sideways from the precariously balanced position on her knees to sit flat on the floor next to him. Sansa leaned towards him, snuggling into his chest.

 _No need to get hysterical_ , he told himself. _She’s just passing out, that’s all._

“The room is spinning,” she said shakily.

“I know, it’s ok. Shut your eyes, don’t think about it.”

“‘Snot helping. Tell me a story.”

He wrapped one arm around her back, more for comfort than anything else, it was getting hard to hold his arm up above her back. Sansa nuzzled closer to him, one arm on his stomach.

“I don’t know any stories.”

“Tell me about your scar.”

He frowned. “You don’t want to know about that. It’s not a nice story.”

She was silent for a moment, and Sandor hoped she had fallen asleep.

“Please?” she finally asked.

He let out a low sigh. “Fuck it, why not? You probably won’t remember this anyway.”

He took a deep breath, wondering where to begin. “You probably remember that I was in Korea?”

She nodded against his chest, then shivered slightly. Sandor pulled the towel closer towards him and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“One day, I was walking to the mess hall with a friend. We were laughing about something the second lieutenant had said that morning at reveille. One moment he was doing an impression of the Jessie, the next moment he was dead. I didn’t hear the shot for what felt like a long time after that. Everyone was running around me, the siren was wailing, but I just kept looking at that hole in his head.”

He shifted slightly, then continued when he determined Sansa was still awake. “It was a sniper. He terrorized our camp for three days. Six dead, a score wounded, living in terror of when he would start shooting again. His shooting was erratic. Sometimes he seemed to hit everything he wanted, then he would miss wildly. For hours, he didn’t shoot at all as we stayed hunkered down. Finally, it had been almost 8 hours since a shot had fired. A squad was elected to go find the sniper. My squad.”

He paused. He didn’t like thinking about this, much less talking about it. He could count on one hand the number of people he’d told this story too, and he’d definitely never imagined telling this story to Sansa.

“Go on. I’m awake.”

He sighed again. “We found him. He was injured, that was why his shooting was erratic, shot in the stomach. Miracle he’d lasted that long. He must have been 14 or 15 years old, a Korean. Just a boy, really, but damn good with a rifle. I always wondered what made him start shooting. Separated from his unit, maybe? Or just decided to set out one day and go out in a blaze of glory? No one knew. He wouldn’t speak to anyone, not even our company’s translator.”

Sansa was quiet and still, lying against his chest. He thought that she must have felt his heart hammering.

“And the scar?”

“He had a sabre. Slashed at me as I came upon his hiding spot. The last little bit of energy he had. He hardly moved again after that. Doc said if it had been a few centimeters to the side, I would have lost my eye.”

“And what happened to the boy?”

“Took his gun. Left him there.”

He would always remember the look of desperation in the boy’s eyes, after slashing at Sandor’s face, and Sandor kicking away the blade. He knew Sandor could have killed him then and there, and he was afraid. Later, when questioned, while Sandor was holding a bandage to his temple, he clammed up, went hard as steel, but in that moment Sandor had overpowered him, Sandor knew that boy didn’t want to die. He wondered if it would have been more merciful to put a bullet in the boy’s head right there, so he didn’t have to live any longer with that fear.

“How you feeling? Room still spinning?”

“A little.”

“Here, drink some water. If you keep that down, we’ll go to bed.”

Sansa drank the water obediently, leaning back to rest against his side. Sandor tucked his jaw against the top of her head and waited.

  
  
  


Sandor woke up a little while later, as a crick began to protest in his neck and shoulders. He looked down at Sansa, sleeping deeply.

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” he prodded. She sighed deeply, but didn’t move. He shook her shoulder gently. Still nothing.

With a sigh, he leaned her back towards the tub, then stood. Making sure to bend his knees, he crouched and slid one arm behind Sansa’s back, one under her legs, and stood. He flicked off the light by the door as he carried Sansa to the bed, illuminated by one bedside lamp. He set her on the edge of the bed, and let her fall to one side, supported by the stack of pillows.

He quickly fished in his suitcase until he found a pair of pyjamas, then returned to Sansa, and put out the lamp.

In the dark, it was easy to pull her dress off, and push her arms through the sleeves of the top. It was too big for her by far, which made it easy to do up the buttons without touching her skin. He normally would have been embarrassed out of his skin performing such a maneuver, but something about the dark, and being sleep-deprived from the night before, was enough to make him forget his nervousness. It helped to think of it like a chore, like cleaning and stowing his rifle before bed after overnight watch.

He pulled the covers down and helped Sansa into bed, before changing into the pyjama bottoms. He considered rooting around for another pair of pyjamas and putting on the top, but he was really too tired to care. He slid into bed, and immediately regretted his decision when Sansa turned over, straight into his arms, head pillowed on the patch of skin just between pectoral and shoulder joint, her arms latched around his torso. Sandor sighed and pulled up the covers, making sure Sansa was well-covered. He drifted off to sleep within minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so. Before anyone asks, I did research and apparently scientists were using radio trackers in the early 60s to track animals, so I just figured, maybe Stannis has access to really small trackers? Idk, I hope it's not too big of a plot-hole, continuity error.
> 
> Also, I got to research how long roofies take to work, so my Internet search history will probably never be the same.
> 
> Anyway, hope you liked it. And if you are in the US (or even if you're not), I hope you are enjoying the peaceful overthrow of a would-be despot. I know I am!


	14. Bye, Bye Birdwatcher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, the exciting conclusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last time: Sansa had to play nice with Petyr (yuck!) long enough to drug him and plant a tracker on him, though accidentally drugging herself in the process. Sandor took care of her when she was sick, and they fell asleep in each other's arms.
> 
> Eeek!!! I hope you like it!

_ Sandor _

Sandor awoke to movement at his side. He had rolled onto his back at some point, and Sansa was pressed close to him, her face pressed to his chest, right arm resting on his stomach, right leg twined around his right leg. Her pyjama top had rucked up during the night, and his hand was touching the smooth skin on the small of her back.

He looked down at her, instantly bewitched by the sight of her red hair strewn over his chest. Sansa sighed against him, her soft breath lightly tickling him, and Sandor realized that was what had woken him. She was moving in her sleep, legs moving against his, like she was running. When the dream turned to nightmare, and Sansa began to whimper softly, Sandor began to run his hand over her back, softly, drawing her back from sleep gradually, speaking her name softly until she woke with a quick inhalation of breath.

She looked up at Sandor, eyes a little glassy and sleepy, then getting rounder. Sandor wondered if the intimacy of their positions bothered her, and removed his hand from the exposed skin of her back.

“Sorry, I just woke up like this. I-” he made a move to pull away, but Sansa wouldn’t release her grip around his stomach. He stopped trying to move away, let Sansa pull him closer. He was painfully aware of his arousal now.

Sansa guided him to his side, pulled his arms back around her, buried her face in his chest. She slid her arms around his waist, legs tangled with his. Her hips pressed against his for a moment, then retreated. Sansa let out a little gasp.

“Sorry, I- can’t help it. It’s been a long time since I woke up with a girl.”

She looked up at him, a mocking smile on her lips. “Just a girl?” she teased.

“No, a beautiful girl. A beautiful woman who could kill me with my bare hands.”

She grinned and started to duck her head, but Sandor reached up to lay a hand on the back of her head, tilting her head back so he could look at her face again.

“I’d like to kiss you,” he started, feeling slightly awkward and embarrassed, but certain that if he didn’t say something now, they would go back home tomorrow, and he’d never work up the courage again.

Sansa made a face, and he almost gave up right there, was two seconds away from jumping out of bed, and never speaking a word about his infatuation again, when Sansa explained in a small voice. “My breath must be terrible, you don’t want to kiss me.”

He smiled at her. “It’s not that bad. Not any worse than mine.”

“I must look like a mess.”

He sighed. “I keep telling you you’re beautiful, but it’s all right. I’ll say it again.”

She beamed at him, and it was like the sun had come out from behind the clouds. He couldn’t help smiling back.

“But if you don’t want to kiss me, that’s all right too.”

She pushed forward as soon as the last words were spoken, mouth sealed against his, her hips bucking forward to press against his, creating a friction that was agonizingly pleasurable. He moaned against her mouth, and Sansa responded with a low, guttural sound of her own that caused his heart to pound and all the blood to rush from his head. Without thinking, he rolled forward, pushing Sansa onto her back.

Before he had time to overthink his visceral reaction, Sansa had wrapped her legs around his waist, not breaking the kiss, but rather deepening it. Any self-consciousness between them seemed to vanish, Sandor unabashedly digging his erection into Sansa, and Sansa pushing back, opening her mouth to let her tongue lap briefly against Sandor’s.

She turned her face to the side, panting for air as Sandor moved his lips to her neck, that expanse of creamy, silky skin. He reached up one hand to place his fingers along the underside of her chin, dragging his fingers down the front of her neck, while his mouth worked slowly from the spot just below her ear, to where her neck disappeared into the pyjama top.

Sansa had just reached up and undone the first button, when the phone rang. They froze as the harsh reminder of the outside world clanged again. Sandor reached over and picked up the receiver, not moving from his crouched position above Sansa.

It was Margaery on the phone. “Good, you’re awake. I’m sending a car for you. It’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

The line went dead. Sandor replaced the phone on the cradle, then let his head fall onto Sansa’s shoulder, letting out a long sigh.

“That was Margaery, we have fifteen minutes til the car gets here.”

“Nice timing,” she scoffed sarcastically, eyes lingering on his lips.

“Probably for the best. Another two minutes, and I wouldn’t have answered that phone for any reason.”

Sansa blushed, and Sandor felt his flagging erection rebound. With a groan, he rolled to the side and lay on his back for a minute, staring up at the ceiling.

“You did-” he started, then broke off.

“What?” she asked, and he could feel her turn her head to look at him.

“You did like it?”

Suddenly, Sansa had rolled on top of him, straddling his hips. Sandor groaned again at the contact of her hips against his, and the feel of her thighs on either side of his waist. She leaned down to kiss him once, a surprisingly chaste kiss, compared to the liplocking they had just been engaged in.

“Yes, I liked it very much. I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”

Sandor let out a relieved sigh. “Me too.”

Sansa dismounted, Sandor couldn’t help but stare at her hips, and the cute little pale pink panties she was wearing. When she stood, however, the pyjama top fell to cover her to the tops of her thighs again, to Sandor’s disappointment.

“I’ll take the washroom first. I’ll just be a few minutes.”

Sandor watched her walk to her suitcase, grabbing some clothes, then heading into the bathroom. Sandor let himself lay for a moment, hands over his cheeks and eyes, before standing suddenly. He had a job to do, and it wouldn’t get done lying in bed, nor by lingering over his longing for Sansa. There would be another time for that, he hoped.

He dressed in a light grey suit, forgoing the tie this time, with a crisp white shirt. He was just strapping on his shoulder holster when Sansa emerged from the washroom, dressed in a pair of close-fitting black trousers, and a heather grey turtleneck sweater. He noted the slight bulge on the outside of her left breast from the holster beneath, unnoticeable to most eyes. Her hair was combed back into a tight ponytail, secured with a black elastic band.

“How do you feel?” he asked, noticing his voice was gravelly and low again, his professional voice.

Sansa nodded back, face even and calm. “I’m ready.”

He stood for a few seconds, just looking at her, warring with the side of him that just wanted to cross the room and kiss her until they ran out of breath.

He nodded instead. “Let’s go finish this.”

  
  


_ Sansa _

Despite Sandor’s confident words in the hotel room, it seemed like they had been dragged out of bed to wait in an office room. Sansa checked her watch. It had been two hours since Margaery had brought them to this taupe-walled cubicle of a room, plied them with bad coffee and stale danish, and promised she’d be back soon.

Sansa poured herself another serving of the tepid coffee into a styrofoam cup, doctoring it with sugar and powdered cream and then setting it on the table in front of her. She stared at the “cream” until it formed a thin skin on the top of the liquid.

“Should have just stayed in bed.”

Sandor glanced at her and then laughed, a short, sharp chortle.

The door finally opened and Sansa turned languidly. She jumped up as Margaery motioned.

“Ok, we’ve got him. He’s finally emerged from his mansion, I have a car following him. They think he’s meeting with the mole now.”

Sansa and Sandor followed Margaery to an elevator, then down to the parking garage where an unmarked van was idling. They jumped into the back, and the driver tore away. Sansa quickly took a seat on one of the benches that lined the back, holding onto a strap suspended from the ceiling to stay upright.

“Sorry about the wait. That rohypnol really did the trick, apparently.”

“I gave him the dose you recommended,” Sansa assured them.

Margaery shrugged her shoulders. “The effects differ from person to person. Or he’s just a lazy-riser.”

“So what’s the plan?” Sandor asked.

Margaery didn’t look up from her map, though she did take the pencil out of her mouth to answer. “Follow him. See where they end up. Make the plan from there.”

Sandor frowned. “Doesn’t seem like much of a plan.”

Margaery cocked one eyebrow, adopting a  _ you got a better idea? _ look then turned her attention back to the map, and a console in the back of the van that looked like some kind of radar. “Looks like they’re headed for the airport,” she called to the driver.

Sansa sat back then, feeling like there was nothing to be done with her building anxiety. They had worked so hard for weeks, and now she felt like luggage, to be carted from one location to another in case they were needed, not because they were vital players.

Margaery offered bulletproof vests, and Sansa and Sandor both strapped theirs on. It was a bulky, inconsistent piece of equipment, but Sansa decided it was better than nothing, though it did little to help her nerves.

She snuck a glance at Sandor when she thought he wasn’t looking. If she were being brutally honest with herself, there was something else she was unsure of: these growing feelings for someone she’d never expected to like, let alone want to go to bed with.

And it was more than just lust, anyway. She had placed her trust in Sandor, let him see her at her most vulnerable. She had been terrified at the thought of being alone with Petyr for ten minutes, but hadn’t batted an eye at being alone all night with Sandor, in a very compromising state. She’d known implicitly that she was safe. Part of her, the trained spy, said it was just the trust one had for their partner, but she knew that wasn’t it. After all, she’d worked with Bond for years, and had never felt anything like this.

Sandor turned his head, caught her looking at him. Sansa felt her cheeks flush, but couldn’t tear her eyes away. It wasn’t like anyone cared, anyhow. Margaery was distracted, and the driver certainly wasn’t watching them.

There was something in Sandor’s eyes that soothed her. She was filled with the certainty that whatever happened that day, whatever they went through, she wouldn’t be alone, and an assurance that whatever these feelings growing between them were, he felt it too, and they would go through that together as well, in time.

Sansa waited with as much calmness as she could muster as the van pulled up to the airstrip, driving slowly through one of the parking structures. Margaery fed him directions, until she finally directed the driver to stop.

“He’s just ahead,” she announced. She pulled her gun from her holster, checking the magazine. Sansa did the same, with a second gun she wore openly at her hip. It was strange, going from subterfuge to operating in public, but she did like the easier access of her hip holster.

When Margaery had ascertained Sansa and Sandor were ready, she slid open the side door of the van, jumping out and walking very quickly and quietly towards the far corner of the parking level. Sansa followed, using parked cars for cover whenever possible. She spotted their target, a black sedan, parked haphazardly in the corner, crossing several parking spaces. Sansa raised her gun. There was a shape in the backseat.

“You in the car,” a voice boomed out, and Sansa almost jumped at Margaery’s deep, take-no-prisoners belting tone. “Come out with your hands up, slowly.”

There was no reaction. No movement. The garage was deathly quiet. Sansa felt like her breathing was the only audible sound in the entire structure.

On Margaery’s signal, Sandor approached the passenger side of the car, gun pointed steadily at the backseat, where the passenger was sitting. There was still no movement from inside the car.

“Looks like he’s asleep,” Sandor called back, reaching forward with his left hand to open the door, right hand still trained on the shape.

“He’s passed out. I have eyes on his hands, no visible weapons. Send someone over to cuff him. I’ll cover them.”

Sansa started to approach, but Sandor waved her off, his gun barrel never wavering. “Stay back.”

Margaery signalled back to the van, and a few minutes later (though it felt like an eternity) a van pulled up, and a man, Sansa recognized him as the security guard from the safehouse, got out holding a pair of handcuffs. Sandor shifted his position, standing more towards the front of the car so he could have line of sight to the occupant while allowing the guard to cuff the suspect.

The unconscious man apparently awoke while the guard was cuffing him, because Sansa heard him start to protest. The guard pulled him out, got him to his feet. The man wavered briefly before the guard steadied him. Sansa saw his face and felt like all the air had b een sucked out of her, though she kept her head and made no noise. She was too stunned as she watched the guard push her brother Robb towards the second van. Sansa felt a pang of panic well up inside her. It was the same faceless van that dozens of the hapless men she’d lured away from a bar or a cafe or a party had been pitched into, to be sent to wherever war criminals and traitors went to rot, never to be seen again.

Robb’s face was groggy, his eyes droopy and blood-shot. His suit was rumpled and looked like he had slept in it. His hair was mussed. He looked more like a homeless man than her dearest brother. When Robb saw her, he broke out of his stupor and reached out towards her. He started to say her name, but seemed to remember himself at the last moment.

“Sa-Sarah!” he croaked out in a voice scratchy, like he hadn’t used it in a while.

“Margaery, what are you doing?” Sansa finally broke out, lowering her weapon. “You know he couldn’t have done this.”

Margaery turned to glare daggers at Sansa. “I don’t know anything,” she hissed. “If he’s so innocent, what is he doing here?”

Sansa shook her head in disbelief. Tears welled in her eyes as she watched Robb dragged away by the security guard, his eyes turned to her in horror, bulging in disbelief. Sansa realized he wasn’t protesting anymore, he hardly knew where he was or what was going on.

A warm hand closed on her wrist, took her gun from her hand and slid it into the holster at her hip. Sansa turned to see Sandor, his gun also holstered at his side.

“This isn’t right, I know he didn’t do this. It doesn’t make any sense,” she felt the words spilling out of her in a rush, and she hated how young and vulnerable she sounded.

“I agree, this doesn’t feel right.” The van door closed on Robb, the vehicle peeling away. The van they had come in was still waiting halfway across the parking structure. The same silent watchfulness descended. They were alone.

Sansa paced away to look at the car again, becoming irrationally angry at the sight of it. “Why isn’t anyone here to check out the car? Is this how they investigate crimes here? Whose car is this?”

She dug around in her pockets, pulled out a cloth handkerchief and started towards the car, opening the front passenger door, carefully using the handkerchief to avoid leaving fingerprints. The car was bare, nothing in the glove compartment, the trunk, under any of the seats that she could see. She checked the back of the car and saw the plates had been removed. The only way they would get an ID on the car would be to pull the VIN and who knew how long that would take.

Sansa walked back to the front of the car, finally spotted something in the ashtray of the back seat, the one on the door of the side Robb had been sitting, something reddish and smaller than a two-pence. Sansa leaned forward and picked it up with the handkerchief. She wanted to scream and fling it to the floor, smash it with the heel of her shoe, but she restrained herself. The red tracker fob that Stannis had warned her was priceless winked at her, taunting her. She laid it and the handkerchief on the hood of the car.

“He’s been set up,” she explained to Sandor, probably unnecessarily. “Baelish caught on to me. Of course he did, getting drugged isn’t exactly subtle. Fuck, I fucked this all up. And my brother will pay the price.”

She was near tears at this point, pacing back and forth. Sador reached forward and placed one hand on each of her shoulders, forcing her to face him. “It wasn’t your fault. I don’t know what else you could have done. Right now we need to keep our heads and come up with a plan. And I don’t think we can count on Margaery for help. I think she’s pretty certain she has her man, and nothing we can say, short of direct proof, is going to convince her.”

Sansa nodded, took a deep breath, marshalling herself. “All right.”

“You know more about Baelish than I do, what would he do? Where should we start?”

She flipped through the mental images of everything she’d ever read about Baelish, as quickly as she could. But those were just cold facts, they couldn’t tell you how oily he was, how he had congratulated himself on catching her, “this beauty” as he called her. So what had she absorbed from her short time with him? He was cocky, arrogant, that much was certain. He’d invited a known intelligence agent to his house without a second thought, because that was how secure and safe he felt in his home. If he’d woken up, sick and head aching, realized she’d planted a tracker on him and somehow had the means and the motive to frame Robb, would he be inclined to venture away from somewhere he felt safe? Especially when all eyes were pointed at a parking garage instead? Maybe not.

“We start at his house. We can make it in 20 minutes if we speed.” Sansa picked up the handkerchief with the fob, folded it very carefully and knottin it so the tracker was safe in the middle of the fabric, then tossed it into the back seat and slid into the car. The keys were still in the ignition. She started the car.

“Sansa, what are you doing? What about the evidence?”

“You said it yourself, the only evidence Margaery will believe, anyone would believe, is catching the real mole, and I’m not about to let my brother’s future depend on that slow poke.” She jutted her chin towards the van and the waiting driver. She turned to Sandor. “You coming?”

Sandor ran over to the passenger side, slid in just before Sansa released the brake and tore out of the parking garage, the driver’s wide eyes following them.

  
  


_ Sandor _

Sandor had seen more dangerous driving in his life, but not by much. He’d known better than to protest when Sansa fixed him a level steely gaze and asked him if he was coming. He knew that look, and any protests he could make that she wasn’t calm enough to drive or that they would find another way, would have just been wasted breath. He clung to the seatbelt now, grateful this car was equipped with them. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Sansa, he did implicitly. But she drove like it was her mission to test and determine exactly how many traffic laws one could break before finally getting in that fatal accident.

They arrived in one piece, however, and Sansa slowed down considerably once they reached Baelish’s neighborhood. She parked the car blocks away, and they shed their vests to avoid sticking out. From there, tey walked briskly the remaining distance.

Huge palace-like residences dotted the broad avenues, surrounded by imposing steel gates and fences, as well as other, more formidable security measures. But Sandor trusted that she had a plan for how to get past these as well as the fence that they handily scaled, Sandor boosting Sansa over, then scrambling after. Sandor eyed the security cameras on the property, assuming Sansa had picked that spot specifically for a gap in their coverage. He would have asked, but he was honestly starting to get a little frightened at her stormy expression and the single-minded concentration with which she attacked each challenge.

He followed her up the wide, sloping yard, mostly crouching behind tree-cover, at times running quickly along the grass, probably depending on not being noticed if they ran quickly enough. All security systems depended on human fallibility, of course. They stopped at a low window at the back of the building, near the servant’s entrance where Sandor had left the night before. He could see the dumpster where he had smashed the champagne bottle.

He looked up at the window, just big enough for Sansa to wiggle through. They stood beneath with their backs to the wall, listening, until Sansa decided the room was empty.

“Boost me up there and then wait by the kitchen entrance. I’ll come and unlock it in a few minutes.”

“What room is that?”

“Laundry. The maid always leaves the door open because it gets too hot.”

Sandor held out his hands interlocked for Sansa to step on, but she seemed to change her mind at the last minute, reaching forward and grabbing Sandor’s tie, pulling him towards her and kissing him hurriedly and deeply for just a moment before pulling away. Her eyes danced over his briefly, then she nodded sternly. “Let’s go.”

Sandor boosted her up through the window, and she disappeared inside. Sandor paused and listened for a moment, just in case she needed help. Realizing he couldn’t help even if he wanted to, since he could hardly fit through the window, he walked quickly to the back door. After a few agonizingly slow moments, the door opened.

Sandor had to admit it was very helpful to have someone with a photographic memory with him as they stalked through the mostly empty building. Sansa had clearly memorized the guard rotation, as they would walk somewhat erratically through the halls, first down a hallway, then hiding in an alcove or a utility closet for a few minutes before proceeding. Sandor was pretty sure he knew where they were headed, too. Baelish’s private study, on the second floor.

They climbed the servant’s staircase in the back of the house, meeting a male member of the domestic staff who was unlucky enough to be walking down the back staircase when they were walking up. Sansa’s sap Lady took care of the situation, and after checking his heartbeat, they deposited him in a nearby closet and proceeded. Outside the door to the study, Sansa readied her weapon, and Sandor followed suit.

Sandor swore he could hear Sansa’s heart beating in her chest as she twisted the knob of the door as quietly as she could. She looked up at him, eyes asking a question. He nodded. She shoved open the door, and they entered quickly, guns ready, Sansa whirling to the right to check behind the door.

It was a well lit room, almost too bright after the dark corridor. Baelish was sitting behind his desk. Sandor swung back behind him just a second too late to check the blindspot to his left. The gun was at his temple before he could react.

“You weren’t supposed to be here,” a familiar voice drawled. Sandor turned his head just far enough to recognize the man who was disarming him as his partner of six years.

“Drop the gun, lass, or you’ll be scraping bone matter out of that pretty hair,” Bronn ordered Sansa, eyes never leaving Sandor’s face. Sandor heard her gun fall to the floor.

“Hands up,” he ordered them both, and Sandor saw Sansa comply out of the corner of his eye as Bronn shut the door and placed his back to it.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Sandor growled. “How long?”

Bronn shrugged, and Sandor almost saw red. “Does it matter? MI6 pays pretty well, but Baelish pays better.”

“You took up treason to pay the bills?” Sansa asked, her voice deceptively light and even.

“And to feather my nest a bit too. I’ll admit that getting to travel was an unanticipated perk. Speaking of birds…”

Bronn moved past Sandor, his gun now pointed squarely at Sansa. Sandor knew his partner ( _ former partner _ he reminded himself grimly) too well to try to get the drop on him. Bronn had reflexes on a fine hair-trigger, and Sandor didn’t trust his speed enough to put Sansa’s life in danger.

Bronn openly ogled Sansa, whose stone face betrayed no thought or motive. Sandor would have given anything to be able to read her mind. Play for time? Bum rush? Reason her way out of it? He hadn’t the first clue what her strategy would be, and that made him nervous.

“You certainly traded up when I was in the hospital, didn’t you, Clegane? Aren’t you a little beauty. This the one that drugged you, Baelish?”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed as she heard Baelish mutter into a telephone, no doubt summoning more guards, then set down the receiver and walk closer, just a few feet behind her now. If they were going to do something, they needed to move fast. Baelish appeared to be unarmed, that was something in their favor.

“Yes, that’s the hellcat. Watch her claws.”

“Aww, do you have claws, little kitty?” he teased her, an ugly smile curling across his lips.

Sansa smiled prettily, and Sandor was suddenly relieved. She did have a plan. He would be ready, whatever she did.

“I should warn you, I have a gun in my bra.”

That confused Bronn. Sandor saw the barrel of the gun waver slightly. “You what?”

She shrugged, a simpering “come and find out” look on her face. Bronn fell for it. Holding onto the gun with his right hand, he reached out his left to grope her breast. The gun barrel wavered even farther to Sansa’s left, and she pounced on the opportunity. Literally speaking, she lunged at Bronn, a feral growl escaping her throat as she shoved his right hand away. The gun went off, but the bullet whizzed harmlessly past her, while Sansa drove her right hand into Bronn’s nose and up so hard Sandor thought she must surely have driven bone into his brain. She shoved him back against the door, hard enough that the back of Bronn’s head rapped against the door with a sickening sound.

Sandor dove for the gun, and quickly disabled Baelish with a shot to the thigh before turning to Bronn. Baelish fell to his side, crying out in pain. Sansa turned to look at Baelish, a look of scorn twisting her features.

“I wanted to fucking shoot him,” she muttered, aiming a kick at the wounded thigh. Sandor couldn’t help wincing, though he certainly had no sympathy for the asshole.

“Get him up, we can use him as a hostage when more security comes.”

Sandor hauled the weeping man up by his armpits, and set him back in his chair, Sansa and Sandor on either side of him, guns aimed at his temple as they crouched behind the desk. Sansa picked up the phone and dialed Margaery. She cursed then put the phone back down.

“No answer.” She reached into the neck of her sweater and pulled out the lighter, smaller pistol, aiming that one at Baelish as she trained the other gun on the door.

“Fuck it, rather go out shooting. Better than a bullet in the brain from that fucking traitor.”

Sandor eyed Bronn warily. He had not yet moved from the position he had slumped into in front of the door. Sandor was almost convinced he was dead, when he spotted the injured man’s chest moving, barely.

“Maybe there’s an ending to this day where we don’t die?” he suggested. “There’s still more I wanted to say, to do.”

Sansa flashed him a smile. “Me too.”

Baelish groaned. “Shut the fuck up Baelish,” she warned with a snarl. Sandor didn’t know if he had ever been so thoroughly aroused and at the same time deeply unsettled.

Footsteps sounded down the hallway. Sandor prepared himself, mentally counting the spare magazines on his belt, wondering how many guards Baelish was likely to have. He was sure Sansa knew, but didn’t feel like asking. It wouldn’t change the number of bullets he had. He felt an odd combination of resigned and hopeful.

The door jumped, but didn’t budge, with the heavy burden of Bronn’s body leaned against it. The door gave another shove, just wide enough now for someone to reach inside, but not admit a full adult. A hand reached through the gap, waving a white handkerchief.

“It’s me,” a voice called.

“Who?” Sandor called back, and then Davos’s head stuck through the gap in the door.

“Don’t shoot!” he called, pulling back slightly at the sight of their brandished weapons. “I’m here on Stannis’s orders.”

“How’d he know we’re here?” Sansa asked, lowering her gun marginally.

“That driver works for him, called in when you tore off.”

“Fucking spies,” Sansa murmured under her breath, but then stood up. “Is Margaery out there?”

“Can- can I come in?” Davos called.

Sansa frowned, turned to Sandor, who shrugged. “All right, just you.”

The door shoved open just a little farther. Davos took in the sight of Bronn, slumped against the door, before approaching the desk with arms up.

“I’m unarmed, I promise,” he joked. Sansa rolled her eyes and stood up.

“All right, you can understand my paranoia,” she scoffed. “What the fuck is going on?”

Davos shrugged. “I have no idea. I think the decision was made that someone of Margaery’s” Davos hesitated searching for the right word, “occupation couldn’t exactly storm a private residence. Stannis, however, has been looking for the perfect time and place to make his move against Old Slimy over there. And if there’s anything Stannis is good at, it’s taking advantage of his opportunities.”

“I’m sure he is. We should get an ambulance for your friend,” Sansa nodded to Bronn.

“Tempted to say ‘fuck that guy’, but you’re probably right,” Sandor admitted.

Davos nodded. He gently pulled Bronn away from the door so he could open it fully, yelling at the guards outside the door to call an ambulance. Sandor just saw Sansa moving out of the corner of his eye, turned to see her heading towards a second door, to the right of the desk. Sandor looked at Davos quizzically.

“Go ahead,” the older man said encouragingly, pulling his own gun out of his belt. “I doubt these two will be any trouble, but I’ve got them.”

Sandor followed Sansa into a small bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Sansa whirled around as he approached, bursting into tears as her arms slipped around his waist, face buried in his chest. Sandor pulled her in closer, rubbing his hands soothingly down her back.

“It’s over now. It’s all over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter! Hopefully, any questions you have will be explained in the last chapter. Thanks for reading!


End file.
